


A Worried Mind

by Bugsyboo1313



Series: A Worried Mind [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: F/M, M/M, Parentlock
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-09
Updated: 2013-08-09
Packaged: 2017-12-22 21:19:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 11
Words: 25,396
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/918134
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Bugsyboo1313/pseuds/Bugsyboo1313
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>First Parentlock story. Sherlock and John adopted a son named Hamish and he goes to school one day and gets beat up because of his personality. Hamish has to be taken to the hospital next day. I really want to show the relationship of Hamish and John and develop Sherlock and Hamish's relationship. Other stuff happens later. Rated T just in case..</p><p>This is a two part story. Part two is titled Playful Minds.</p><p>Please leave comments on my writing! I love feedback about what I can improve. Thanks! Enjoy! :-)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Tea & Company

**A Worried Mind (Chapter 1)**

**Takes place: about eleven years after Reichenbach.**

***Sherlock can't sleep and finds that his son is awake as well. They sit together for a long time. John wakes up eventually when it's time for Hamish to go to school. It's not until later when they get a call from the principal that Sherlock and John are worried about him.**

A blurry red light came from the far side of the room on a small table. Sleepy and eyes groggy, the mat sat up in bed and rubbed his knuckles over his eyes. His eyes adjusted to the dark room and then to the window and small street lamps blazing lazily outside. He stood up, careful not to wake his partner, and stared down at the street below. His long, graceful fingers pulled the curtain back ever so slightly.

The street down below was completely deserted; not one taxi cab was in sight. The sky was black and blue and was still littered with stars. The city of London was fast asleep, but soon its' heartbeat would soon be heard again and the streets would be abuzz with talk. After all, the flat from which the man stood in the window was only a tiny fraction of the city.

221B Baker Street stood in the middle of London, smashed between Mrs. Hudson's restaurant and another flat. The man turned his gaze away from the window and stared at the blurry writing he saw when he arose from bed.

Sherlock could now read the bright red numbers on the alarm clock. It read 4:27 A.M. This was a habit of Sherlock's; not getting enough sleep and waking up at a dreadful time in the morning. But he could not go back to sleep now; he was already awake.

Instead of crawling back into bed, Sherlock located his blue dressing gown and quietly closed the door behind him. He rubbed his eye again, walking down the hall as his bare feet scraped the carpet. His dressing gown flew a few inches behind him as he walked.

His eyes were blinded when he flicked on the kitchen light so suddenly. He shut his eyes tight, blinked a few more times, and began to search for his coffee mug. He found it among all the beakers and test tubes on the dining room table, and went to boil some water in a kettle to make tea.

He jumped when the kettle suddenly let out a screech. He took it off the stove quickly before he awoke anyone. It still spat out steam and hissed at him as he poured the water into his mug. The tea bag sank into the mug like a feather when he put it in, and Sherlock took the cup with him into the living room.

He set the mug down on the coffee table and went to sit on the couch. He caught himself, however, because he noticed a small yet bulky object lying on top of the cushions.

Hamish, Sherlock's eight year old son, had left his book bag for school on the couch again. The number of times Sherlock found it there, he lost track. He took a deep sigh and slightly rolled his eyes, wondering when that boy would ever learn. He picked it up and dropped it on the floor. It landed with a loud  _thud_ on the opposite side of the coffee table. Sherlock let his body sink onto the couch and folded his hands over his chest.

A hard object hit Sherlock's hip and he reached for his bathrobe's pocket. He pulled out his shiny black iPhone and read the text that glowed on the screen.

_Found some new evidence. Scotland Yard. Come later today if you can. –Lestrade_

He slapped his phone against his leg and completely ignored what the message said. He wasn't in the mood to figure out a case today. For once in his lifetime, he didn't feel like doing his job. The phone slid across the coffee table and clinked against the side of the coffee mug. Steam still rose from the opening, so Sherlock didn't take the risk in taking a sip.

From behind the steam, something had moved in the kitchen. A small figure moved in the shadows of the hall leading to Sherlock and John's bedroom. Sherlock stared at the ceiling and thought why John would be awake at this hour. He thought he had possibly woken John when he stepped outside the room, but John wouldn't hide in the shadows like that…The only other explanation would be for his son to be awake, but it was too early in the morning for him to get ready for school…

The figure moved again, this time trying to get a peek at Sherlock. The detective knew who it was when he spotted the same curly brown hair as his own on top of the little boy's head. He sighed again and couldn't hold it in any longer.

"Hamish…" He tilted his head on the couch so he could see better. The little boy slipped quietly and slowly out from the shadows, and there he stood, Hamish, dressed in his pajamas with his hands behind his head.

"Hamish, what are you doing up at this hour?" He stopped to think for a moment. "Oh, I'm sorry. Did I wake you?"

"No. Couldn't sleep." Hamish's voice cracked and he stared at the floor, drawing little circles with his big toe. He frowned and looked up into his father's eyes. Sherlock pushed himself up to a sitting position and placed his elbows on his knees. He shook his head slightly and ruffled his messy hair in his hands. He realized that his tea was still resting on the coffee table, and he picked up the mug and slowly brought it to his lips. The liquid was still quite hot, and Sherlock almost burnt his tongue.

He set the mug back down and looked back up at his son. Hamish stood there, not moving, nor talking. His face was sad and his eyes pierced Sherlock with even more expression. Sherlock scanned him up and down. Hamish looked like himself when he was young, only he had the exact same eyes John had. He also seemed to act a year younger than any of his friends. He was growing up to become more like John than Sherlock, except for the fact that he was always curious about everything. He wanted to be like Sherlock, only he had the same bravery and loyalty as John had. John and Sherlock didn't understand how he grew up to be just like them. After all, Sherlock and John had adopted him several years ago.

Sherlock gave in. He didn't want to stare into his son's eyes any longer. "Come here," he said, in a gentle voice, motioning for Hamish to sit on his lap. The boy did not hesitate, but instead walked casually over to his father and sat down.

Sherlock was never good at talking to Hamish; John was always the better father. He got up the courage and decided to try anyway. 'Hamish Watson-Holmes," he said, pausing after he said the name. "I really don't know why you're up at this hour. Why couldn't you sleep?"

"I…I…" Hamish stuttered and tried to find words. Sherlock raised his eyebrows in confusion at him. "I…well…I don't really know why. I guess…I've just been thinking, that's all."

"Thinking?" Sherlock's eyebrows contracted even more. "Thinking about what?"

Hamish breathed a deep sigh before continuing. "School."

"What about it?" Hamish refused to say more. "Hamish," Sherlock said, his voice becoming a little sterner, but he went back to his usual calm voice before speaking again. "You can trust me. You can tell me anything."

"I don't know why, but I find it easier to talk to dad than to you." Sherlock understood this. He always seemed socially awkward around his son for some reason. Sherlock was also getting used to Hamish's way of addressing him. Sherlock was "father," and John was "dad." This was the easiest way for Hamish to speak to his two dads and know which one he was talking to. Sherlock always thought it was strange when his son called him "father," because it seemed like a name for an older dad, when in fact, John was slightly older than Sherlock. Maybe that's why he was so good at talking to people…

Sherlock snapped out of his thought and returned back to the world. He smiled and looked down at his son, sitting hunched on his lap. "I know. Sometimes he's the only person I want to talk to." He turned his head away and smiled even bigger so that Hamish could see. Then he opened his mouth again to speak. "But you know, deep down, that I care for you Hamish. We both do. Your dad and I love you so much." He placed a smooth hand on his son's cheek and ran his fingers over his face.

Hamish couldn't resist smiling. He nodded his head and answered in his usual childish voice. "I love you too father." Sherlock wrapped his arms around his son as he curled into a tight ball. He hugged him into his chest and didn't want to let go. He found his fingers running through his son's hair and he placed a kiss on top of his head.

They broke apart and Sherlock held his hands on Hamish's shoulders. He stared into his son's eyes for quite a while, and then patted him on the head.

"Come on," he said, rising from the couch. "Better get you back into bed. You still have two and a half hours before you normally get up." Hamish stood up from the couch and hugged his father around the waist. When he let go, Sherlock found Hamish's hand finding his own and he clasped the tiny fingers in his own hand. Hamish led the way back through the kitchen and down the hall, into his bedroom where a flashlight was a light on the bed. The bed stood in the far corner of the room, and the curtains covering the windows had been pulled back.

Sherlock flicked the light switch and a dull light was cast over the room. Hamish gingerly pulled back the dark green covers on his bed and slid beneath them. He clicked the flashlight off and placed it on the bedside table to his right. He laid down in his bed and rested his head on the soft pillow. Sherlock nudged his son's legs so he would move them out of the way. He sank a couple inches into the mattress as he sat on the edge of the bed.

"You try to go back to sleep now, okay? You can think all you want later at school." Hamish smiled. Sherlock returned the message and stroked his son's hair. He sat there, murmuring small words of love and comfort to his son, and then his hand slowly retreated away from Hamish's head. He rose slowly from the bed, but before leaving, bent over and planted a small kiss on his forehead.

Sherlock turned in the doorway and stopped before closing the door and shutting the light off. "I'll be on the couch if you need me, okay?" His voice was calm yet a little shaky.

"Okay father."

"Alright then. Goodnight Hamish. Sleep for a little longer." His hand ran over the light switch and the room was plunged into darkness. The door gave a small  _squeak_ as it closed behind him. Sherlock's hand still clutched the door handle as he smiled to himself.

The couch sank again as Sherlock spread his entire body over the surface of it. He didn't realize after a while that he was thinking so much about his son, it brought him happy thoughts as he drifted off into t peaceful sleep.

"Sherlock…Sherlock, wake up." There was a faint voice in Sherlock's ear, but he couldn't make out whose it was at first. It grew louder as he came back to the world around him and the darkness behind his eyelids faded. He felt a hand shaking him, and he twisted his back to his right and managed to open his eyes.

John Watson-Holmes, his partner and husband, stood looming over him. A bright light came seeping in through the open windows, and his coffee mug had been removed from the table. Sherlock's right arm hung loosely on the side of the couch, while the other was tucked into his chest.

John smiled when he saw Sherlock open his eyes. "Morning sleepy." He was already dressed in a pair of jeans and a red plaid shirt. John grinned and started to walk back into the kitchen. "Seriously," John's voice was heard from a distance away, "I think that's the longest I've ever known you've slept for. You got over seven hours of sleep."

Sherlock sat up and rubbed his neck. He regretted sleeping on the couch now, because his muscles were tight and it was very uncomfortable. He stretched his arms out above his head and exhaled deeply. Then, the urging question was launched from his mouth.

"Where's Hamish?"

"Oh I just sent him off to school." John appeared in the doorway, holding two mugs of coffee. "Had to dash out with a piece of toast in his mouth. Blimey he did not want to get up when I tried to wake him. Here."

"Thank you." Sherlock accepted the coffee without hesitation. "I came out here after I couldn't sleep last night. Hamish was up too apparently. Says he 'couldn't sleep.' I talked to him for a little while before sending him off to bed again."

"Oh," John said, as he sat down in his favorite arm chair. "No wonder he was tired." John rustled the newspaper and began to read the front page article.

"I'll be right back." Sherlock jumped up from the couch and proceeded to his and John's room. He dressed himself and tried to fix his untidy hair. His curls were still slightly a mess as he went back into the living room. He strolled over to John's chair and gave him a small kiss on the cheek before settling on the couch again.

He reached out to grab his phone and found a picture of one of the pieces of evidence from his case. Sherlock, the consulting detective, sat there for quite some time trying to decipher it.

It was only around twelve thirty when John's phone began to buzz. He picked it up and read the name of the person calling him. "Oh no," he sighed, telling Sherlock before he answered it. "It's Hamish's principal at school. Don't tell me he's in trouble…" John left the room and left Sherlock alone in the peace and quiet. After a few minutes, however, John rushed back into the room still talking on the phone. He had a worried expression on his face and he went to grab his coat from the hook on the wall.

There was a silence in which John didn't speak and Sherlock looked at his husband, confused. Then John spoke into the phone, his voice shaky and scared. "Right, thank you. We'll be over in a minute. Bye." He ended the call and Sherlock was inches from John's face in a second. John's blue eyes were filled with fear and he delivered the words from his mouth, still shaking.

"It's Hamish. Something happened at school. He was attacked by a kid in his class."


	2. Hamish's Condition

**A Worried Mind (Chapter 2)**

There was no need for John to explain any more. Sherlock grabbed his coat from the back of the desk chair and tied his scarf around his neck. John was slipping his arms into his jacket as he descended down the stairs in front of Sherlock. Mrs. Hudson could be heard washing some dishes, and there was a muffled  _BANG!_ from behind her door.

John nearly kicked open the door to 221B and ran down the steps to the curb. Sherlock closed the door to the flat behind him and turned up his coat collar. John had once claimed that Sherlock did it to "look cool." Sherlock still did it anyway. Besides, it was windy outside and he turned his coat collar up against it.

"Taxi!" Sherlock shouted out into the street, waving his hand frantically. One taxi sped by without bothering to stop and Sherlock stomped his foot in frustration. John stood with his hands on his hips, tapping his foot impatiently on the concrete.

Sherlock tried waving down another taxi and this time it stopped for them. Sherlock opened the door for John and waved him in. He sat down on the back seat and slammed the door behind him.

"Wilmington Elementary please, and try to be quick!" he added. He sat back in his seat and kept playing with his hands frantically.

John looked nervously out the window and tapped his hand on his thigh. He turned his head towards Sherlock and asked the same question Sherlock had in his mind.

"Why would anyone attack him? Hamish wouldn't cause any trouble…He'd  _never_ start a fight." He ran his fingers through his hair and put his head in his hands. Sherlock ignored the question and kept staring down into his lap. His fingers were weaving in and out from each other.

"Sherlock, stop doing that." John reached his own hand over the seat and separated Sherlock's fumbling hands. He grabbed his left hand and held it tight in his own. John seemed to notice that Sherlock had taken this more seriously than he himself had. He squeezed Sherlock's left hand and looked at his face. Sherlock stared straight in front of him at the back of the seat, his eyes fixed in a state of depression.

John let out a small breath and took his non-clasping hand and turned Sherlock's head so he looked him straight in the eyes. John tried to look into Sherlock's eyes, but Sherlock kept averting John's. John edged closer on the seat to Sherlock and laid his head on his husband's shoulder. Sherlock couldn't resist any longer reached over John's body to grab his left shoulder and bring him in closer. He tilted his head so it rested on top of his blogger's head.

They sat there hugging each other all the way to the school. It was not too far, and when the taxi came to an abrupt halt Sherlock gave the cabbie his money and quickly burst out the door. The detective and his blogger walked side by side up to the double glass doors to the entrance to Wilmington Elementary. This time it was John who opened the door for Sherlock. He bowed his head slightly and adjusted his coat as he stepped inside the building.

The main desk was to their left and the door to the principal's office was in the corner where the opposite wall and the main office desk wall combined. It was closed and the shiny gold name was written in neat handwriting directly in the center.  _Mr. Allen Richardson._

"Hello," Sherlock said, trying to hide the panic in his voice as he approached the front desk. "We're here to talk to the principal about our son."

"Are you Mr. Holmes and Mr. Watson?" the lady at the desk asked politely.

"Um, it's actually Mr. Watson-Holmes, but yeah, that's us."

"My apologies. I think Mr. Richardson is talking to your son right now. You may go in, just knock and wait for a response." She motioned her hand to her left where the door was. Faint voices could be heard from inside.

"Thank you." Sherlock's voice cracked slightly as he turned and nodded to John. He knocked his fist three times on the wooden door, waited for the "Come in," and slowly turned the brass door handle.

Sherlock first got a glimpse of the office desk and a tall man sitting in chair directly behind it.

"Hamish!" John saw him first, slumped in a chair with his head in his hands. His curly hair was a mess and there was dirt all over his clothes. John rushed over, trying to not let the tears escape from his eyes, and hugged his son as tightly as he could. Hamish did not move. His head was still in his hands.

"Hamish…" John's voice was almost not heard. Hamish slowly rose from the chair and John stood up with him.

"Hamish, it's okay, everything will be okay." John rested his head on Hamish's, tightly holding Hamish around his shoulders and head, while Hamish wrapped his arms around John's torso.

Sherlock felt a single tear run down his long face as he ran over to hug his husband and son. He wrapped them in a tight hug and the three of them stood together, holding each other, for quite some time. It wasn't until John started to back away slowly that Sherlock stepped back and rubbed the tears from his face.

"Hamish…?" John asked cautiously as he released his son. There was no answer from the boy. He was still trying to hide his face from his dads. John kneeled down in front of his son to become eye level with him. Shaking, John raised his hands and slowly pulled Hamish's arms from his face. Sherlock's eyes went wide when he saw what had happened to his only son.

Around Hamish's left eye, a dark black, blue, purple, and green bruise was forming. It was puffy and swollen around the middle and bright pink. His face was pale, since all the color had been drained from it. His hair fell in whisps over his forehead and it was covered in cold sweat. But that wasn't the worst of the damage.

Running from just below Hamish's right eye, a deep gash ran diagonally down his face, and the blood kept trickling down from the wound, which he had tried to rub off on his hands. For when John opened the palms of Hamish's hands, John was reminded of the same deep scarlet shade of blood on the pavement from the Reichenbach Fall that covered Hamish's tiny delicate hands.


	3. Warm Comfort

**A Worried Mind (Chapter 3)**

***Just so you know, Lestrade is married to Molly. They have a seven year old daughter named Lila and Molly is nine months pregnant with another girl named Isabella. Her due date is in about two weeks.**

John ran his thumb over the cut on Hamish's cheek and he winched a little at the pain. A small speck of blood ran onto John's finger and he stood up suddenly, looking both annoyed yet terrified. He wiped the blood onto his jeans and turned to face his husband. He placed a rough hand on Hamish's shoulder and pulled his son in closer.

"Hamish," Sherlock addressed his son in his most calm voice, "Would you wait outside a moment? We'd like to talk to the principal alone, and then you can come in and tell it yourself." Hamish looked up into his father's eyes and gave a small nod.

"Don't worry," Sherlock told him, as he kneeled down to come face to face with him. "It's going to be okay, everything will be fine. Okay?" He shook Hamish lightly and gave him a kiss on his forehead, careful to avoid contact with the bruise and gash. Hamish slipped outside the door like a shadow, and then it snapped shut and Sherlock and John were along with the principal.

"Please, take a seat." Mr. Richardson motioned for the two of them to sit down. They both looked at each other, and John took a seat opposite the principal but Sherlock strolled over to the window and stood with his arms crossed.

"So," Sherlock began. The hint of panic was in his voice again. "We'd like to know, from your own words, what happened to Hamish."

"There's no way Hamish would intentionally start a fight. He's not like that…" John added.

"Just…" Sherlock took a deep breath and exhaled. "Keep it short, but explain everything."

Mr. Richardson shifted in his chair and looked up at the two men. "Well, I don't know all the details of what events happened, but I promise I'll tell you what I know." Mr. Richardson told his honesty and Sherlock and John listened, waiting to hear what all the trouble was.

"All I really know," the principal began, "Was that I was just sitting here in my office working on papers and next thing I know the secretary comes flying through the door exclaiming there had been a fight." He whipped his forehead on his arm and continued. "Being the principal, I immediately came to see what all the commotion was about. Sure enough, when I arrived outside during their free time, a kid named Bill Foster had your son pinned to the ground."

"Sorry sir," John interrupted, "But who is Bill Foster? Hamish's never mentioned him before…"

"Well, Mr. Watson…" There was a silence in which John's last name wasn't finished.

John had to correct him. "It's Watson-Holmes, actually."

"Is it really? I thought that was only your son's last name…" Sherlock rolled his eyes so that the principal couldn't see. "Sorry. Mr. Watson-Holmes. Bill Foster has been hanging around your son for quite some time now. I don't believe that Hamish didn't come talk to you about it at home, because that boy has been pestering Hamish for a long time now. Hamish has come to me several times complaining about Bill's behavior around him, but there's simply nothing I can do."

Sherlock couldn't believe he was hearing this. His own son hadn't even discussed being bullied at school with either of his parents, yet he went to the principal multiple times…?

"However, Bill has been expelled from the school for his actions." John raised his head slightly.

"Why? What did he do? Surely you can't expel him for just beating up my son? I mean, yeah maybe suspend him for a month or two, but don't expel him…"

"Oh we have an appropriate reason to expel him Mr. Watson-Holmes. Your son can tell you that after we bring him in. Anyway, when I came outside to the grassy area, Bill was hovered over your son and there was a crowd beginning to form. I told them all to move back, and when I saw Hamish's condition, I immediately brought him inside and expelled Bill. I think I'm done talking. Please bring your son back in so we can hear the full story, in detail."

John twisted his neck to get a good view of Sherlock, then nodded for him to bring their son back in. Before Sherlock turned the door handle, he warned Mr. Richardson, "Don't push him too hard. He's definitely been through a terrible shock and may need some time before he speaks." Mr. Richardson nodded and mumbled, "I understand sir."

Sherlock opened the door and pushed Hamish inside with his hand on his son's back. Hamish said nothing but moved across the room and sat down in the chair in which his parents had first come.

"Hamish…" John said, reaching out a hand to rest on his son's lap. "I want you to tell us what happened. Take your time."

Hamish fumbled with his hands for a minute or two, then took a deep breath and began his story. "I guess it started on break time…" He shuffled his feet on the ground and continued again. "I was just walking alone and went to sit down under my favorite tree. I was picking a blade of grass when Bill Foster came lopping up to me with a bunch of his friends."

"What did they do?" Sherlock's voice echoed from the corner.

"They started to laugh at me, like I had said something funny. I didn't know what was so funny. But when he stopped laughing, he…he…he started to insult me for no reason!" Hamish's small voice went high-pitched suddenly and he let out a wail. Sherlock stood next to his chair and placed a hand on his shoulder, trying to comfort him.

Hamish sniffled in his nose and continued on with his story. "He laughed because of me! He thought I was 'different', so he made fun of me! I stood up to try and show that I was brave. And before I could defend myself he hit me right in my eye and I toppled over backwards."

John squeezed Hamish's knee and tried to get him to speak more. "How did you get the cut on your face Hamish?" He didn't reply, but just sniffed a few more times.

"Hamish…please tell me."

Hamish muttered one word from his mouth. He was so quiet Sherlock barely heard him. "Knife."

"He pulled a blade on you!?" Sherlock was startled and bent down to try and look his son in the eyes. Hamish nodded and tears sprung from his eyes.

"That's why Bill Foster has been expelled." Mr. Richardson tapped his hands on his desk. "For being in first grade, he had no business bringing a knife to school. He could've killed Hamish if he tried."

"I do believe we are done here." Sherlock interrupted, now taking Hamish's hand in his own and getting him to his feet. "Thank you for your time Mr. Richardson."

"I suggest you escort your son to the nurse's office. It's just down the hall on the left. He…"

"No need," John explained, standing up from his chair. "I'm a doctor. More specifically, an army doctor. I think we'll just take our son home. He's had far too much trouble for one day. Good day Mr. Richardson. Again, thank you for your time." He stretched out his hand and shook it with the principal's. And without another word, Sherlock, John, and Hamish departed from the headmaster's office.

The ride home in the taxi cab was completely silent. The only movement was that of John who tried to stop the bleeding of Hamish's cut. He kept rubbing his thumb over the cut, which resulted in Hamish winching slightly and John apologizing every few seconds.

Sherlock slid the key into the keyhole and rotated it to the flat of 221B. As soon as the door opened, he hustled his son into the flat and up the stairs as quickly as possible. He held Hamish's hand and guided him into the kitchen, John skipping a couple steps at once behind him.

"John," he said, turning to face his husband. "Take care of him. Get Hamish cleaned up army doctor. I'll be right back." He left the room down the hall without another word, his coat swishing behind him.

John didn't want to take Hamish into the bathroom, so instead he cleared away all the various objects lying on the dining room table. He turned on his heels and picked up his son under his armpits, lifted him up and set him in a sitting position on the table. Hamish's face was lit up from the light above his head and John became eye level with his son.

"I got to stop that cut from bleeding anymore…" John looked worried. "Tilt your head a little…" John put both of his hands on either side of Hamish's head and tilted it slightly to the left so he could see better. "Holy crap Hamish," John said, shock spreading through his eyes. "He cut almost a full centimeter into your cheek. Sherlock!" he yelled over his shoulder. "Come here, and bring me one of the first aid kits. Quickly!"

John took a paper towel and got it wet with warm water. He squeezed it out and returned to Hamish's side. He looked into his son's eyes and warned him before applying the towel to his head. "This is going to hurt, a lot. I need to get the complete inside of the cut. I still don't know how the hell he cut your cheek that deep and didn't tear a muscle or something…" Hamish nodded and prepared for the pain to come.

John moved his hand slowly over the gash, trying to open it a little at a time. Hamish let out a cry and his hand flew up to his face. "It stings! Careful dad!."

"I'm trying Hamish, but it's simply going to hurt." John heard loud footsteps growing nearer and next thing he knew Sherlock's figure had appeared back in the doorway of the kitchen. He held a first aid kit in his hand and handed it over to John.

"Thanks Sherlock," he replied, giving him a small kiss on his cheek. "Just stand next to him in case the pain gets too extreme. He'll need someone by his side." Sherlock moved around the table and went to stand on Hamish's left. His hand rested on the table just inches from Hamish's. John spotted it and gave Sherlock a small smile.

"Okay Hamish, now, the more you stay still, the less this is going to hurt. I'm going to have to insert some medicine into your cut, otherwise it's never going to heal. Just, try and be, brave okay?"

"Come on," Sherlock said, his eyes becoming lighter and his lips formed a smile. "We both know where his brave trait came from." He blushed slightly and stared down at the table.

John chuckled softly to himself. He lifted his head again and told his son, "Ready?"

"Maybe." Hamish shrugged his shoulders. John rummaged through the first aid kit and pulled out a small bottle containing medicine. He unscrewed the lid and gently placed his hands on Hamish's face. A single drop of the medicine fell down into where John had opened Hamish's cut carefully.

"OUCH!" Hamish couldn't resist the pain. His face contorted in pain as he keeled over. His knees bent and came up to meet his head as he bent forward.

"Hamish!" Sherlock gripped Hamish around his waist as the weight of his head took him forward. He tried to lift him up and back, but Hamish was doubled over in pain. Sherlock found Hamish's hand and held it tightly. "Hamish! It's okay! Don't do this Hamish!" Sherlock's hand squeezed Hamish's tightly and his other hand rested on Hamish's opposite shoulder.

"Come on Hamish!" Sherlock's voice still had some panic in it from earlier. John placed his hands on his son's shoulders, his left hand resting on top of Sherlock's. Hamish stirred and slowly raised his head. Tears had sprung from his eyes because the pain had hurt so badly.

"Hamish…" Sherlock's voice was tiny and barely heard. John raised his hands and wiped the tears from Hamish's face.

"Don't cry," he said, trying to calm him down. "It'll only make it worse." John put the cap back on the medicine bottle and placed it back in the kit. He then picked up another wet paper towel and started to rub away the rest of the blood. Hamish felt it sting again and this time tilted his head away from his dad's hand.

"Hamish," John's voice was growing in tone and there was a hint of anger in it. "Hamish, please, cooperate with me. I'm almost done. It'll be all over soon, I promise…" Sherlock went back to gripping his son's hand to try and calm him down. John washed off the remaining blood covering Hamish's face and dabbed it dry with a clean towel.

"There," John said, satisfied with the outcome. "Told you it would be over quickly." Hamish's hands were grasping his knees so tightly that his knuckles turned white. The cut on his face was closing up already and only a strand of red was visible. No one could tell that he had had a deep gash on his cheek. It only looked like a cut now.

"He didn't do it intentionally." Sherlock contracted his eyebrows and stared up at his son, quizzical. Hamish says both his parents' confused looks and answered their question. "He didn't actually cut me with the knife. It slipped out of his hand and slashed my face. He dropped it in fear where he heard the principal coming."

Sherlock shook his head. "Hamish, it doesn't matter. What matters is that Bill was expelled and that you're safe here, with us." He embraced his son and Hamish gladly accepted the invitation. He fell into his dad's arms and buried his nose in his chest. John smiled and saw the friendship between the two. He saw Sherlock smile at him as he moved his hand up and down Hamish's back, giving him what a parent always gives; warm comfort.

"Come here Hamish," John said, ruining the sweet moment. Their son turned to look up at his dad. "I need to see your black eye now. It'll only take a minute or two."

John simply wiped Hamish's eye with a wet paper towel so that some of the dirt was removed from it. "Well, "he said, looking puzzled. "You're going to have quite a bruise for a while kid. It's certainly not as puffy as it was when we first saw you. Just don't disturb it, okay?" John patted Hamish's back and he hopped down from the table.

Sherlock took out his phone from his coat pocket and sent a text to Lestrade.

_Not going to come today. Hamish has had quite a scare. Don't worry, he's okay. Going to stay home to comfort him. Family stuff. You know what I mean. Say hi to Molly, Lila, and Isabella for me. –SH_


	4. Pictured Memories

**A Worried Mind (Chapter 4)**

***Just so you remember, pay attention to "dad" and "father," otherwise you'll get confused. Remember John is "dad" and Sherlock is "father."**

Nothing exciting happened after they sat down to eat lunch. They were all silent and didn't want to discuss Hamish's problem at school. Sherlock sat on Hamish's right and occasionally reached out his hand and rubbed it over his son's face. Hamish's cringed slightly after the third time Sherlock touched him, and Sherlock frowned and didn't lift up his hand anymore.

While Sherlock lied on the couch after he actually ate something, Hamish suddenly jumped into his lap, startling him. Sherlock gave a groan as Hamish landed directly on his stomach. Then he sat up and adjusted his son's position so it was more comfortable for him. He lifted his long and graceful hand and brushed his son's hair out of his face.

He suddenly noticed that Hamish was still covered with dirt. "Hamish," he said, concern in his voice. "You're filthy. Why don't you go take a shower, get yourself cleaned up?" Hamish had no objection and smiled. Sherlock wrapped his arms around Hamish's waist and pulled him in closer. Their foreheads came together and Hamish's childish giggle was heard in Sherlock's ears. He looked up into his son's eyes, smiled, and gave him a light kiss on his forehead.

"Come on," he said, bouncing Hamish lightly in his lap. "Go get clean." Hamish slid off his legs and Sherlock patted him on the back of his leg, sending him off to his room. Minutes later, Sherlock and John heard the sound of running water from the bathroom next room over.

Sherlock messed up his hair as he always did and turned his gaze upwards. John stood leaning against the doorframe to the kitchen with his arms crossed, a smile across his face.

"He loves you, you know…" John looked down and started moving his feet over towards where Sherlock was sitting.

The smile on Sherlock's face widened. "I know," he said. "But he loves you more. You're more of a father to him than I am…"

"That's not true." The cushions on the couch sank slightly as John settled his body down to Sherlock's left. "He loves you just as much as he loves me. Don't deny it," he added as Sherlock began to open his mouth to argue.

"He doesn't show it though…" Sherlock said after a long silence. John took in a deep breath and shifted his sitting position. He lifted his hand and turned Sherlock's head so it faced his. John's bright blue eyes stared into Sherlock's brilliant green ones. His hand rested on Sherlock's cheek and he reached in closer to give Sherlock a small kiss on his lips.

John whispered into Sherlock's ear. "Just give him some more time." He messed up his husband's hair and stood up. He collapsed in his favorite chair and began looking at some evidence from their case.

Hamish finished his shower but didn't immediately return to the living room. In fact, he didn't return until just before dinner time. John stood in the kitchen, stirring a large pot of chicken noodle soup on the stove top. Sherlock had his feet resting on the coffee table and his nose was buried in a book. Hamish rushed in, his hair still wet and tangled and jumped on his father, wearing a fresh pair of pajamas.

"Ugh! Hamish! Hi. You're getting too big to jump on me." Sherlock gave his son a small smile to avoid Hamish's mouth turning into a frown. He laughed, set his book down, and let his son rest his head against his chest.

"What were you doing Hamish?" Sherlock asked, curious.

Hamish twisted his position in his father's arms. "Looking at pictures of you and dad." John heard Hamish and turned his head at the mention of 'dad'. Sherlock saw him over Hamish's curly hair and blushed slightly.

"Any good ones?" He asked, staring from Hamish to John, who stood in the kitchen with a smirk on his face.

"Oh yeah," Hamish said, crouching next to him. "There's some from before you adopted me, and lots of all three of us." Sherlock smiled. "And," Hamish said, continuing, "There's one of you and dad at your wedding. That one's my favorite." Sherlock looked up at John in the kitchen. John couldn't help but smile at him.

"Can I see them?" Sherlock asked, placing a hand on Hamish's shoulder.

"Yes," he said, his voice sounding like a five year old. "I'll be right back." He got off of his father's lap and scrambled to his room. When he returned, he had a whole stack of photographs in his hand. He climbed back onto Sherlock's stomach and lay on his back, so the two of them could see the pictures together.

"Look!" Hamish said, pointing to a photo of the three of them four years previous. They all looked so much younger. It was a family photo in which Hamish was peeking at the camera over his parents' shoulders. His elbows rested on Sherlock and John's shoulders, and they all looked extremely happy.

Sherlock slid the next photo out from the bottom of the pile. "I remember this," he said, laughing at the funny face Lestrade was making. "He's like your uncle, Lestrade is." Lestrade was holding a three year old Hamish on his hip, who was smiling with a few teeth missing.

Hamish's tiny hand pulled out the next photo. It was from Sherlock and John's surprise anniversary party thrown by Lestrade and Molly. They had been married for two years then. Sherlock and John stood in the middle with Lestrade and Molly on either side of them. Hamish's tiny figure was kneeling in front of them. Sherlock had on black dress pants and shoes, a white shirt and a black blazer. John had on black dress pants and shoes as well, but he had on a purple shirt with a white tie.

"See Hamish, that's when Molly was pregnant with Isabella. This was taken about three months before she had her." He pointed to Molly, who wore a skinny yellow dress at the far right of the picture.

"I like this one too," Hamish said, pulling out another photo from their anniversary party. Sherlock smiled at the sight of the picture. Lestrade had taken this picture. Both Watson-Holmes were standing in the middle of the wooden floor, holding hands and sharing a kiss. One of Sherlock's hands had grabbed John's tie to pull him in close. John turned away from making dinner and saw Hamish's cuddling with his father. The sight of them getting closer to each other made John happy.

There was a loud beeping noise and the timer on the stove went off. "Dinner," John called from the kitchen.

"Want to finish after dinner Hamish?" Sherlock asked.

"I'd love to father." Sherlock smiled and ruffled his son's hair. He reached around his head to plant a small kiss next to the gash in his cheek and patted him on the back, signaling for him to get up. The smell of the soup was strong and Hamish carefully grabbed a bowl from the counter. He took baby steps, holding his soup bowl with two hands, and went back to sit on the couch and eat it.

"Thanks John," Sherlock said, giving him a kiss on his cheek. John followed him out of the kitchen and all three of the smushed together on the couch to continue looking at pictures. Occasionally they would come across a funny one or a family one. They actually found one of Sherlock doing a photo bomb of Hamish and John and John snorted at the sight of it.

"Shut up," Sherlock said, elbowing his husband in his ribs. "You done with your soup Hamish?" he asked as he stood up to stretch his legs.

"Yeah, I guess so." He handed his father the bowl and told him his thanks. The bowls clinked together as Sherlock stacked them on top of each other in the sink. Sherlock wiped his hands on his dressing gown and sank back onto the couch next to Hamish.

They spent the rest of the night looking at their photographs before Sherlock and John sent Hamish off to bed. They followed him down the hall and into his room. Hamish crawled under his covers and moved his legs so John could sit down next to him. Hamish could see his father standing with his hand on his husband's shoulder.

John stroked his son's hair and smiled. He didn't say much except, "Goodnight Hamish," and gave him a small kiss on his forehead. He rose from the bed and went to stand in the doorway. It was Sherlock's turn to say goodnight now. The bed sank as he put his full weight on it.

He sat stroking Hamish's curly hair and running his fingers gently over his cheek. He traced his finger over the cut on Hamish's face and tried to open his bruised eye more so he could see it better. "Don't worry," he told Hamish, "It'll heal soon."

"Goodnight son," he said, stroking his hair one last time. "I love you."

"I love you too father." His arms extended and he gave his father a hug.

Sherlock whispered into Hamish's ear before breaking away, "Thanks for the picture memories." Sherlock stood up and went to join John in the doorway. His eyes were bright and a smile was on his face. Hamish glanced up from his bed and saw both his parents standing side by side together.

"Goodnight Hamish." Hamish smiled and waved as Sherlock's hand closed the door and the light from outside in the hallway in Hamish's room became fainter. The door closed completely and Hamish was plunged into total darkness.

Sherlock felt fingers weave through his own as John's hand clasped around his. He was led into their bedroom and both of them dressed into their pajamas. John pulled on his pajama shirt and Sherlock flopped himself onto the bed. John slid into bed and Sherlock rested his hands on his stomach.

John reached over across the bedside table and turned off the light. Pitch black surrounded them. Sherlock heard John whisper in his ear, "Goodnight Sherlock," and felt a light kiss on his lips.

Soon a light snoring could be heard from Sherlock left and he knew his husband was asleep. Sherlock's eyes wouldn't close and he had no interest in sleeping. He rolled over onto his side and looked at the alarm clock from across the room. Time had flown by. It was now 11:43 P.M. He lay in bed for a few more minutes, silence pounding in his ears.

And then from the room next door, a high pitched scream suddenly filled the night and Sherlock sat up abruptly in bed.

"John…John!" He shook John on his shoulder and woke him. "Listen…" There was nothing but silence all around the flat.

"Sherlock," John said sleepily, rubbing his eyes, "There's nothing to hear. Your brains going funny on you or something…" But he was cut off as Hamish sent out another scream from his mouth and John rolled over quickly.

"What the hell…?" John was too late in asking, because Sherlock already bolted out the door and was sprinting down the hall.


	5. Be Strong

**A Worried Mind (Chapter 5)**

***Read my Not Losing You story to understand Sherlock's first nightmare.**

Sherlock's legs carried him as fast as they could down the hall. He did not turn to his left when he ran outside his bedroom door, but instead of heading to the left toward Hamish's room, he turned to his right towards the kitchen. He flicked on the lights and blinked slowly as he tried to adjust his eyes.

There was no sign of anything being disturbed or moved. The doors were closed and no footprints were visible in the room. Sherlock switched the light off, adjusted his eyes again, and turned on his heel, heading down the hall again.

"Hamish!" he yelled as he ran. When he passed the blackness protruding from his and John's room, John came flying out and nearly hit his head on the opposite wall. His feet pounded against the floor and the carpet was rough on his toes. A glint of moonlight was seen from the crack under Hamish's bedroom door. It came closer to landing on Sherlock's feet, but he didn't pay attention as he put his full weight into his shoulder. The door burst open as Sherlock hurled his shoulder blade into the door.

"Hamish!" he yelled once more into the darkness. He heard a faint sound of sobbing from the far corner. His hand scanned the nearest wall, patting it and searching for the light switch. He found it a couple inches from the doorframe to his left and his hand shifted it upwards. The room was filled with a dim light and it came into clearer focus.

Hamish sat on his bed, knees up to his chest, facing the wall. His curly brown hair was a tangled mess and he was running his hands over his head. There was a dent in his pillow from where his head had been thrashing around.

"Hamish!" Sherlock saw him curled up in the corner and rushed over to his bedside. Hamish did not stir when he heard his name. He only brought his legs in closer to his chest and buried his face in his knees. Sherlock sat his body down on the bed next to his son, trying to look him in the face. Hamish wouldn't move, so Sherlock tried shaking him gently. Next thing Sherlock heard were footsteps growing louder in the hallway.

John appeared in the doorway, breathing heavily and wearing his dressing gown over his pajamas. He crossed his right arm over his chest to grip his ribs while his other hand rested on the wall. Sherlock turned to face Hamish and ran his hand through his son's hair.

"Hamish?" John's voice was heard first before Sherlock could get his words out of his mouth. John was slowly taking steps toward his husband and son on Hamish's bed. Sherlock turned back to Hamish and shook him again.

"Hamish?" Sherlock's voice was quiet. He moved his hands from Hamish's shoulders onto his hands. Hamish didn't move for several seconds. Sherlock bent his head down and stared into his lap, right were his legs criss-crossed. He suddenly felt a violent grip on his long hands as Hamish wrapped his fingers around his father's.

Sherlock lifted his head to get a better view of his son's face. He tried to peek around his elbows, but there was no way he could get a clear view of Hamish's face. Sherlock felt Hamish's body stir, as he slowly began to raise his head.

A terrified expression was spread across Hamish's face and he was shining with sweat. His eyes were wide and he was shaking all over. When John saw that Hamish had lifted his head, he sighed and moved closer hurriedly.

When Sherlock went to reach out his arms and give his son a comforting hug, he felt Hamish's shirt was cold and damp. Sherlock brought his son in close to him and ran his hands up and down his back, trying to be a comforting father.

John didn't want to interfere in their hug. Instead, he asked Hamish the question he needed to know and his voice cracked. "What happened Hamish?"

Hamish didn't speak immediately. His cut looked more sharp and noticeable in the dull light of the room. His bruised eye looked almost completely black, so it made the white of his eye stand out more. His skin was a ghostly white.

"Shhh…" Sherlock muttered into his son's ear. "It's okay."

"Hamish…" John whispered as he sank onto the bed, "Please, tell us what happened." Hamish took in a deep breath and let out a long sigh. He final got up the courage he'd developed from his dad to tell his parents what had happened.

"I…I…" Hamish stuttered to find words. John placed his hand on his son's shoulder, urging him to speak. "I just…had a really bad nightmare, that's all…"

John's hand tightened on Hamish's shoulder. "Believe me," he said, "from the number of times I've had a nightmare, I know what it's like and how to handle it."

"Yes but it was me who was normally there to comfort you," Sherlock added.

"That's only if the nightmare was really bad. Imagine the number of times I had to calm down when I was by myself before I met you."

"So…" Sherlock said, interrupting his husband, "What, um…happened in your nightmare son?"

"It…it…oh it was horrible!" Hamish suddenly burst out in tears and gripped his father around the waist. Sherlock didn't deny his son's request and embraced him in a hug. Sherlock looked towards John for help and John shook his head, muttering "Give him some time." John got up from the bed and went into the bathroom a few rooms down.

Sherlock felt a small vibration against his chest and heard a faint voice from under his dressing gown. He lifted Hamish's chin and whispered in his ear. "What did you say?"

"I couldn't spend the rest of my life with you…" he said as he buried his head back into his father's chest. Sherlock sat holding Hamish, his mouth gaping open. Footsteps were again heard in the hall and a few seconds later, John appeared in the doorway. He held a box of tissues and a small white towel.

"Come on," he said, patting his hand on Sherlock's head. "Back up and give him some room. We need to calm him down." Sherlock slowly let go of Hamish and ruffled his already messed up hair. They had him sit on the edge of the bed while Sherlock and John kneeled in front of Hamish, sitting on their heels.

John rose from his heels and dabbed the towel gently over Hamish's face. He ran it up and down his cheeks and over his forehead. Hamish winced slightly when John rubbed the towel a little too roughly over his cut. John muttered he was sorry and squeezed his son's hand.

"So Hamish," Sherlock started again, slowly this time, "What happened in your nightmare?" John continued to run the towel over Hamish's face as he tried to get out his story.

"I…I don't really remember what was going on in the first part of it…But, I remember being kidnapped by an unknown figure and gagged. I couldn't move or speak. And…and I was taken to this mysterious place that I didn't know, and you two were there." Sherlock and John looked nervously towards each other when they heard that they were both in their son's nightmare.

"And…"Hamish continued, trying to fight back tears, "Whoever the mysterious person was, he decided to…to…he wanted to kill one of us!" Sherlock's mouth hung open and he placed his hands on Hamish's knees. Hamish was brave and continued with his story telling. "I don't know what got into him, but…he pulled a gun and pointed it directly at my head!" Hamish bent over and his head rested on Sherlock's hands.

John reached out his arms and wrapped them around Hamish's upper body. "It's alright Hamish. It's okay. We promise nothing like that will ever happen to you." He managed to make Hamish sit up and offered him a tissue. Hamish blew his nose and threw the used tissue across the room towards the trash can. It missed by several inches.

"Hamish," Sherlock said, his curiosity coming to him, "Are you sure you didn't know who the person was? You didn't see his face or anything?"

"No," Hamish said flatly, no expression in his voice. "I didn't see his face at all. All I saw was dad with a huge gash in his face and you with a broken arm. Dad was trying to reach for you, but he couldn't. And I was on the other side of the room! And…I felt so bad when the man pulled the trigger on the gun because I couldn't do anything and I knew you would have to live without me!" Tears rolled down his face again, but he didn't fall forward this time.

Sherlock's long fingers ran over Hamish's and John's fingers skimmed Hamish's cheek. Hamish stopped sniffling and lifted his chin up higher.

"I did get a glimpse of a name though…" he said, so quietly John had trouble making out what he said.

"Who?" Sherlock asked anxiously. "What was the name Hamish?"

Hamish paused for a long time. The silence was deadly and both Hamish's parents had their eyes fixed on him. And Hamish somehow managed to let out the name that flashed in his mind.

"Moriarty." He pronounced the name slightly wrong but it didn't matter. Sherlock's eyes went wide with shock and confusion. Hamish didn't need to explain any more as he'd seen his father's face.

"Hamish," Sherlock informed him, calming down and controlling himself. "I want you never think of Moriarty again. He's dead, I witnessed him killing himself. There's no way he can hurt you because he killed himself. He won't ever be able to hurt you…" And with that he pulled Hamish into another heart-warming hug.

John had been quiet almost the entire time, lost for words. He couldn't contain himself any longer and went to wrap himself around his husband and son. They sat cuddling together for quite some time, trying to get Hamish to stop shaking and make him relax.

Sherlock struggled to release himself from the pile and looked Hamish directly in the eyes. "You okay?" He knew he really wasn't, but he just wanted to hear Hamish say it.

"Yeah, I'll be okay." Hamish broke away from his parents and scooted back so he hit the wall. He brought his knees up to his chest again and blew his nose into another tissue. When he threw it across the room, it landed perfectly in the trash can.

"Good shot," said Sherlock, smiling and rising from the bed.

John's voice was finally heard from behind Sherlock's back. "We'll be next door if anything happens, okay?" Hamish nodded from the corner. "No more nightmares. We're here with you. I promise nothing will ever happen to you." John strode over to Hamish's bed and reached over to give his a kiss on top of his head.

Sherlock found his husband's hand and gripped it tightly. They walked over to Hamish's bedroom door and turned to face him. "Goodnight Hamish," John said from the doorway. Hamish sent back a tired reply and lied back down in his bed as the door closed behind his parents.

Sherlock led the way back down the deserted hallway back into their bedroom. He released his hand from John's and went around to the other side of the bed. John glanced at the alarm clock on the bedside table. They had been in Hamish's room for nearly forty minutes.

"Do you really think he'll be okay? He did have quite a scare…" John asked as they climbed back into bed. "Don't you think one of us should stay in his room with him?"

"He'll be fine." John wasn't totally convinced and Sherlock wasn't entirely sure.

"Come on," John went on, "Do you remember your first nightmare?"

"Very clearly," Sherlock admitted. "I hated that nightmare. Still haunts me to this day. Even though I know you didn't die, because you're right here with me, and you're my husband." Sherlock rolled over on his side to face John. His face was just noticeable in the dim light cast from the window. He cuddled in closer and gave John a light kiss on his cheek.

John smiled and found Sherlock's hand under the covers. "Goodnight Sherlock," he whispered into the darkness. His eyes fell slowly and John soon found himself in a peaceful sleep, still holding his husband's hand.

Sherlock however, did not fall asleep for another couple hours. He lied on his bed facing the ceiling, staring at nothing but darkness. He kept worrying about Hamish and thinking about how Moriarty could have possibly been in his nightmare. His deductions led him into a world of black mist as his eyelids dropped and sleep took him.

John was awakened by someone yelling his name. The voice was muffled but became clearly when a man rushed into his bedroom and shook him violently on his shoulder.

"John! John, get up! There's something wrong with Hamish! He can't seem to move and his physical appearance has become worse than it was yesterday!" John's ears adjusted and he recognized the voice as Sherlock's. He sat up abruptly and rubbed his eyes. His eyes opened and settled on Sherlock, looming over him.

John didn't need any more explanations. Being an army doctor, he needed to see Hamish immediately. Ignoring his dressing gown, he sprung up from the bed and bolted out the bedroom door behind Sherlock. The door to Hamish's bedroom door stood ajar and the light outlining the door became closer with each stride John took.

When he turned the corner and passed the wall blocking his view of Hamish, John saw a body curled up in the corner, not moving. Not hesitating, he rushed over to his son's side. Hamish's eyes were shut tight and he looked like he was having a fit. He head was turned John's direction so he could see his face.

The bruise over his eye was a darker shade of black and blue, which was normal, but the gash that ran across his face somehow had swelled up and was a deep red. It was extremely puffy and the pink around the cut had spread out in all directions over his right cheek. He looked like he had bright red spider webs running all over the left side of his face, facing John.

"Hamish!" John tried shaking his son but Hamish did not stir. John struggled to find his son's arm under the bed sheets and took his pulse. It was slightly faster than normal. John tried everything he could to try and wake him, but nothing he tried worked.

Hamish suddenly let out a sort of gagging sound and collapsed heavily onto his pillow. "Hamish!" Sherlock screamed, rushing over to the bed and feeling his forehead. He was hot and his face was pale. "John! Do something!"

"I can't! I never learned how to handle this! If I try, I could seriously hurt him or something! Go get your phone and call an ambulance!" Without any more telling, Sherlock rose from the bed and dashed out of the room.

Not long after, John could hear Sherlock's panicky voice echoing in the kitchen as he turned back to Hamish, still gripping his wrist and feeling a pulse. His eyes swelled up with tears and he ducked his head under his son's arm. He mumbled to his son, who couldn't hear him, as he heard Sherlock's faint voice end the phone call.

"Please…Please Hamish. Don't leave me… _Us…_ Be strong…"


	6. Room 207

**A Worried Mind (Chapter 6)**

Within ten minutes from when Sherlock had made the call, wailing sirens were heard outside coming down the street. Pretty soon, Sherlock could see the bright blue and red light from outside the window from where he was standing in the living room. About a dozen people leapt out from the ambulance before it completely came to a halt. Both Sherlock and John knew something was wrong with Hamish when it was mid-afternoon and he'd not wakened or gotten better condition wise.

John had heard the ambulance and came out from Hamish's bedroom, carefully carrying his son in his arms. Hamish had one arm around John's neck while the other hung limply by his side. A creak from downstairs had told them that the team of people had opened the front door to 221B. Loud footsteps could be heard coming up the stairs, growing louder and louder.

The door upstairs suddenly burst open and several people wearing bright neon vests came stumbling into the room. One of them opened his mouth to ask, but when he saw Sherlock's finger pointing to his son, there was no need to be told anymore.

John was slightly hesitant when he handed Hamish over to the unknown man. Sherlock's hand rested on his husband's shoulder as John gently let Hamish sink into the man's outstretched arms. The tall man took Hamish without another word and turned directly for the door. When he had disappeared out the door at the top of the stairs, another body in a long black coat flew in, his face with a look of shock on it.

Detective Inspector Lestrade stood dumbstruck four feet from the two partners. He was breathing very heavily and deeply, and Sherlock took a minute to find strength to lift his head. Lestrade didn't open his mouth to speak. All that he managed to do was raise his eyebrows to ask the question for him.

Sherlock couldn't find words either. Instead, he shrugged his shoulders. Without saying another word, Sherlock bolted for his coat on the hook by the door and grabbed John's hand, telling him to follow him. John stopped after a few steps and pointed at his clothes. He was still wearing his pajamas.

Sherlock's hand found his husband's cheek and he patted John on the back, signaling for him to go change quickly. John rushed into their bedroom to change into jeans and a white shirt. Sherlock's feet carried him slowly over towards the couch and his body sank onto it. Sherlock could hear the ambulance alarm growing softer as it raced down the street outside. Sherlock wished he and John were on the ambulance with their son, but he knew that they would see Hamish sooner or later. Lestrade stood behind the coffee table, shifting every now and then between his feet.

John appeared in the kitchen doorway within five minutes. When Sherlock saw him out of the corner of his eye, he immediately sprung up from the couch. John flung his arms into his jacket and the next second, all three of them were out the door and flying down the stairs. The front door of 221B swung shut behind Lestrade and they proceeded towards the already waiting police car.

The two husbands sat in the back together, gripping each other's hands so tightly their knuckles turned white. Lestrade kept giving them light glances over his shoulder every now and then. John's free hand kept rubbing over his knee and Sherlock's ran through his messy hair. Each of them could feel the tension spreading throughout the car.

Sherlock's left hand loosened from John's and his elbows rested on his knees. He felt the same feeling inside from when they had been sitting the taxi cab not even 24 hours ago. This time though, the feeling was worse. Sherlock felt as though the weight of the world collapsed on him; he had a strong pain in his chest and an empty feeling in his stomach.

The police car turned a corner and a bright white hospital came into view. They had not been taken to St. Bart's, which was good because John didn't want two terrible events to happen to his family members in one place. John had hope however; being an army doctor, he could tell that the damage that had been done to Hamish was not violent enough to kill him.

The ambulance was pulled over by the curb near the emergency door outside. The back doors were wide open and no one was in sight. A few people who were passing into the hospital gave the ambulance a few worried looks and made their way slowly into the building. The sun glinted off the glass windows brilliantly and the sky was a clear shade of bright blue.

The police car came to an abrupt halt directly in front of the automatic doors. There was a click of three door handles and Sherlock, John, and Lestrade jumped out of the car. The door swung open for them and they found themselves standing in a very long, wide, and tall hallway. The ceiling was arched overhead, covered in windows. The check in desk was to their left. Sherlock approached it was caution, because he could see the woman behind it was in a bad mood.

"Hi," he said, trying to keep himself from blurting out what had happened. "I'm Sherlock Watson-Holmes. That was my son that was brought in through the emergency door not long ago…?" His voice was delicate and Sherlock wasn't sure why he had told the lady in a question form.

"Oh, right," she managed to say. She was talking through gritted teeth, but took a deep breath and tried to bring herself together. "One moment please, I need to see which floor he was taken to." Sherlock nodded and backed away from the counter slowly. He caught John's eye and felt a small hand slip into his. The lady behind the counter reached for the phone and dialed someone.

John found the front lobby slightly odd. There were no tables or chairs right near the front desk, but there were many benches farther down the hallway. It looked more of an entrance hall, except for the fact that there were about four dozen hospital room doors lined up on the long walls. Shining silver numbers were nailed to the front of each one. There were about 200 rooms on each floor. The place looked quite small from the outside, but the inside was larger than you'd think.

There was a quite clink as the woman put the phone back down in its' holder. Sherlock heard her clear her throat and turned back to face her.

"He's on the second floor. You'll have to check with the main desk upstairs to find out which room he's been taken to. You will probably have to wait to see him for a while as well…" Her face lost the angry expression and her eyes became sad.

"Thank you," Sherlock told her. He started to turn and leave, but she stopped him one more time.

"Sorry, but I need to know who these people are as well before you go."

"Oh!" Sherlock completely forgot to introduce them to her. "This is John Watson-Holmes, my husband, and this is Greg Lestrade. He's…" Sherlock stopped himself for a minute. Lestrade looked at him with raised eyebrows. "He's…a friend," Sherlock finished. Lestrade looked at his feet and caught Sherlock's eye before Sherlock turned towards the woman again.

"Right, thank you," she said. "You're free to go upstairs now. The stairs are right down the hall on your right."

Sherlock muttered his thanks towards her and the three of them strode down the hall. Lestrade gave Sherlock a questioning look and Sherlock didn't reply immediately. "I had to think of something," he said after a while. "After all, you are a friend. You've become a friend of mine over these past years. Technically, you're more Hamish's friend than mine."

"I'm more of an uncle to Hamish I'd say." Lestrade smiled to himself and thought of all the great times he had with Hamish. He was almost like a son to Lestrade. Lestrade was as close to Hamish as he was with his own children. But obviously, he loved Lila and Isabella more than anything in the entire world, along with his wife, Molly.

Sherlock's feet carried him up the dark green stairs two at a time, leaving John and Lestrade behind. When he reached the landing for the second floor however, he stopped to hold the door for them. Both of them passed through the door saying thanks under their breath, and the three of them continued down the hall.

This hall was exactly the same, except when they walked through the doors, this time the check in desk was to their right. There was a tall man sitting in the chair behind it, and he didn't need to ask who they were when they approached the desk. He put his hand up before John could ask if Hamish was okay.

"I'm sorry. I know you desperately want to see him, but you'll have to wait till tomorrow. He'll need stitches in his cheek so there isn't any more major damage, but we'll give him a few days before the operation. Whoever put that medicine in his cut, that was clever. He'd be a lot worse if you hadn't…" John didn't say anything, but nodded instead.

Sherlock refused to leave so quickly. "We can't see him at all today?" he asked the man, hoping for a positive reply.

"Well, if you wait around for a while, you might be able to check in on him before he'll need to sleep." Sherlock breathed a sigh of relief. John scanned the long hallway and Lestrade stood right behind his shoulder.

"Oh, thank you so much," Sherlock said.

"Just so you know," the man continued, "You can either stay here and wait or come back later. But, if you decide to stay here, I'm warning you now that it may be several hours before you can see your son."

"We don't care." The words suddenly bursted quietly from John's mouth and Sherlock turned to stare at him. "We'll wait. We want to see him as soon as possible."

"Very well." The man gave a small nod towards John. "He's in room 207. Just over there on your left."

"Thanks," Sherlock told him as he headed towards the room. The big silver numbers gleamed on the front of the door. Sherlock's hand ran over the surface of the polished wood, wanting to open the door. He pressed his ear firmly against the door, but heard nothing.

He turned back slowly around on the heel of his foot, staring at the shiny floor. John arms suddenly wrapped around his shoulders and his hands clasped firmly behind Sherlock's neck. John stood on his tiptoes and their foreheads came together. They stood together for several minutes, eyes closed and holding each other on their arms. No one spoke. The silence was becoming stronger by the second.

At long last, John released his arms from his husband. Sherlock looked down into John's face, but John was staring down towards the floor. His eyes began to water and a single tear ran down John's smooth face. His eyes became bright red and the tears kept running down his face. Sherlock lifted his graceful hand and wiped the tears from his husband's face.

"It's alright John…It's alright…" Sherlock pulled him into a tight hug and buried his face in John's hair. Sherlock's bright green eyes couldn't stand it any longer. He felt the water surging up through his eye, and fall down his face without blinking. Sherlock looked up from John's blurred shape of hair and saw Lestrade standing over by the nearest bench. His hands were in his coat pockets and he had been watching them the entire time.

Sherlock's left hand ran up and down John's back as he let go of him. Then, turning towards Lestrade, he added, "You can go. You don't have to stay. It's going to be a while." Lestrade seemed lost for words. He opened his mouth once or twice but no words protruded from his lips. He gave in after a few seconds and nodded. He turned on his heel and walked back to the stairs, not looking back at them until he reached the door at the top. The door clicked behind him, and Lestrade's figure disappeared down the hospital stairs.

Sherlock found his feet carrying him again towards the bench nearest 207's door. His body lowered onto the seat and his hands rested in his lap. John stood in front of him, looking down upon him and bouncing up and down on his feet. After a while, Sherlock stopped him and brought him into a sitting position next to him.

"You're making me nervous…" he explained. Sherlock was already nervous before he sat down though. He kept fumbling with his hands as he had done the previous day. John didn't say something this time. His hand just slipped in between Sherlock's and he squeezed it tight.

The two husbands sat side by side, anxiously awaiting when they could see Hamish. Sherlock checked his watch. They'd been sitting there for an hour. John's head grew heavy and he was having trouble keeping his eyes open. Around 7:30 P.M., he drifted off into a deep sleep.

Sherlock saw and felt John's light breathing on his lower arm. He let his husband sleep on his shoulder and didn't disturb his rest. He kept himself occupied by texting Molly and eventually playing a game on his phone. It didn't help his mood when he couldn't complete a level ofAngry Birds. He shoved the phone back into his pocket. He didn't pull it back out when he got a response from Molly.

Sherlock occasionally checked the time on his watch. His stomach growled, telling him that he was hungry, but he didn't dare move while John's head rested on his shoulder. Tear tracks were still visible on John's pale face. John stirred in his sleep, shaking his head slightly and clenching his eyes tightly together. Sherlock knew another nightmare was crossing his mind. He weaved his hand over his husband's face to calm him down without waking him.

Carefully, Sherlock slipped his arm out from his coat sleeve. He took his time, removing his coat from his body. When it was completely off him, he flung it around John's sleeping body and wrapped it tightly around him. He gave John his coat as a blanket and tried not to freeze himself. He sat rubbing his hands up and down his arms and legs, trying to bring some heat to his body. The silence around him was ringing in his ears. Time passed by as slowly as Sherlock could have wished it not to.

After four long, dreadfully lonely hours, the door to the hospital room of 207 swung open with a soft creaking noise.


	7. Friends Protect People

**A Worried Mind (Chapter 7)**

John's head hit a hard surface as a figure lifted up from where he was sitting. A throbbing pain passed through his head and he sat up, rubbing where his head had hit the bench. He grit his teeth in pain and felt a soft hand land on his shoulder. He heard a faint voice whisper in his ear.

"John…?" Are you okay?" John rubbed his eyes so he could see better. Of course he understood when Sherlock stood over him and he was sitting on the bench in the hospital.

"Yeah," he replied, shaking his head one more time to extract some more pain. He blinked a few more times so his vision could become completely clear again. Sherlock offered him a hand and nodded his head towards a doctor who'd just come out from Hamish's room. John took Sherlock's hand and helped himself to his feet.

"Sorry…" Sherlock mumbled to his husband, pressing his graceful hand where John had bumped it. John flinched slightly and his hand automatically snapped up to his head. Sherlock looked worried and put his head down in shame. He decided not to help John anymore, because it would only hurt him more.

"So," he said nervously, his head raising quite quickly, now speaking to the doctor, "Can we see him?"

"He's on the verge of sleep," the doctor told them, "but you can still go in and see him. He's very tired. He'll need to sleep soon, but he deserves to see his parents first." The doctor motioned his arm towards the door, but then stopped himself before they could enter. He pulled the door closed without a noise and turned back to them.

"We just want to let you know that he's going to need surgery on his cheek. Well, not really. He'll just need some stitches to patch up the cut. That will take place in a few days time. He should be able to leave the hospital in about two week's time. We think some sort of virus got into him and that's what caused him to act like he did." Sherlock and John caught each others' eyes, then turned nervously to hear the rest of the conversation.

"As long as we stop the virus now, the blood will return to normal in his cheek and he won't be harmed in any serious way. He should be recovered in about a week, but he'll need to stay for a second week, just so we can make sure he's completely healed."

"Now," the doctor continued, "if one of you or both would like to come and keep him company during the operation, you're more than welcome to."

"Thanks," Sherlock said, before John could open his mouth, "but I think Hamish will be able to handle it on his own. He'll be fine."

"Suit yourselves," the doctor confirmed, and he let the door swing open so they could step in.

The hospital room was a decent size, with a large window completely covering the opposite wall. Hamish was sitting up in his bed, dressed in a hospital gown, staring out the window. When he heard the door open, his head jerked violently.

Sherlock had Hamish wrapped in a hug the moment the door swung open. He saw his son for a split second, resting on the bed in the left far corner of the room before his feet carried him over towards his bed. John took some time for them to embrace each other before he too approached the bed. The door snapped closed after him and the three of them were alone in the room.

"Father…" Hamish's head barely poked over Sherlock's shoulder. He spoke in a whisper and looked down at the floor. "I'm fine…" Hamish's caught John's eye from across the room, who stood near the window with his arms crossed.

"Father, I'm fine…" Hamish said, a little louder this time so he could hear his son. Sherlock loosened his grip on his son, and Hamish slid out of the tiny hole of his father's arms. Hamish could see when his father backed away from him that tears had sprung from his eyes. Hamish reached out his arm and his long fingers, just like his father's, ran over Sherlock's face and wiped away his tears. Sherlock couldn't help but give his son a little smile. Sherlock's arms grew weak and fell onto the hospital bed. The mattress was soft and squishy as Sherlock lowered his body onto the bed next to his son.

It was John's turn to make sure his son was alright. He didn't rush to the bedside, but took small strides towards the bed instead. When he reached the bed, his body gained speed and he stared at his son with wondering eyes. John opened his mouth to say Hamish's name, but he couldn't come to do it. He looked his son up and down, and Hamish was confused. John's hands managed to slowly crawl up to Hamish's face. He tried to look into his son's eyes and find some kind of happiness.

John's hands skimmed the smooth surface of Hamish's cheeks. He tried to ignore the mess of red that weaved all over it.

"John…?" Sherlock placed a hand on his husband's shoulder, thinking John lost his memory of Hamish or something. John didn't move for a long time; he just kept staring into Hamish's brilliant eyes.

John face suddenly changed expression and he let out a sort of sigh of relief. "Hamish," John let out a deep breath and hugged his son. Some sort of feeling had passed over John and he couldn't believe for some reason that his son was alive.

"Dad…dad, it's okay." Hamish tried to comfort him with a tiny hug. John jerked and shook his head violently over Hamish's shoulder. Losing control of himself, John let Hamish's unravel his arms from his dad and John lifted himself from the bed. His feet carried him over to the far corner of the room.

"Sorry…" John said as he went, his voice cracking because tears were on the verge of leaking out of his eyes. He did a sort of motion with his hand indicating that he didn't know what to say. He stared down at the floor and ran his hands through his hair. Sherlock looked from Hamish to John, asking his son with his eyes if he knew what was wrong. Hamish just shrugged his shoulders, not knowing what was wrong with John.

John managed to pull himself together and find words to say. "I just…didn't want to lose you Hamish. I already lost your father, or thought I did years ago, and I didn't want to lose you too." He took a long paused to inhale and exhale multiple times. "I'm just…glad I didn't lose you. Both of you. Otherwise, I'd be here alone. But that didn't happen, because friends protect people." He sank into one of the chairs next to the window.

Sherlock rose from the bed and examined all the machines lingering in the room. There were a couple wires attached to Hamish on his wrists and one Sherlock read one machine telling him his son's heart rate was normal. The upper half of the bed had been lifted up so Hamish could rest his back against it while he sat.

John's watery eyes glanced outside the window. They weren't incredibly high in the air, considering they were only on the second floor. Hamish's room did however have a dazzling view of the city. London was all lit up by street lamps and shop signs, and it was still abuzz with many people coming home late from work. Tiny figures far away were moving in the distance.

The sun had already sunk behind the tops of the buildings of London, and the sky was turning a luminous shade of navy blue. The stars sparkled in the sky and reflected in the corners of John's eyes. John felt a hand resting on his shoulder and went to grab it. When he clasped it tightly in his own, he realized it was Hamish's hand because it was tiny and delicate. Hamish's hand could fit snuggly in the palm of John's.

John craned his neck around to get a better look at his son. He'd gotten out of bed and was standing inches from his dad's knees. Hamish's eyes gave off such a strong feeling of sadness that John couldn't stare into them for very long. He pulled his son in close and gave him a kiss on his forehead. Directly after Hamish pulled away from his dad, Sherlock scooped him up into his arms so his legs dangled over the side. Hamish let out a little giggle, and John shook his head and stood up to join them.

John's arm fixed itself upon Sherlock's opposite shoulder and they stood together in a family hug for what seemed like a long time. All three of their head met in the center of their bodies, Hamish still resting in his father's arms.

Sherlock peeked around Hamish's stomach to check the time on his watch. "Well!" he said, cheering up a bit and turning his head towards Hamish, "You, little detective, need to get some sleep." He swung Hamish around a few times while striding towards the bed, and Hamish couldn't help but giggle and squeal slightly at his father's awkward behavior.

"Father!" he exclaimed, wrapping his arms around Sherlock's neck for support, "You're acting silly!"

"Who says I can't once in a while?" the detective asked, placing Hamish carefully back onto the hospital bed, giving his son a smirk. He pulled the covers up over Hamish's body and tried to find the latch to lower the bed.

"You don't have to," Hamish told him. "The doctor is coming back in before I can sleep." Sherlock understood and stopped his search. He sat on the bed and placed one hand on either side of Hamish.

"You sleep well tonight, okay? Just think of being back home in 221B." He reached in to give his son a kiss on the cheek.

Hamish smiled as his father backed away from him. "I love you," he said.

"I love you too," Sherlock told him, stroking his hair and moving aside to let his husband say goodnight. John lowered himself onto the bed and breathed a deep sigh.

"I'm sorry about earlier," he said, telling his son what went on in his head. "I just sort of lost control. But I mean it. I don't want to lose you. Because I love you so much." He outstretched his arms and Hamish accepted his invitation. Hamish's head rested in the space of John's shoulder comfortably.

John kissed Hamish on the side of his head and let go of him. He turned toward his husband and led him over to the door. Before he could turn the door handle, he was stopped by Hamish's voice from the corner.

"Will you come back tomorrow?" he asked, curiosity in his voice.

"Of course we will. We'll come visit you every day if you'd like."

"I'd like that very much," Hamish said, smiling. "I love you."

"We love you too," both Sherlock and John said as they opened the door. The brightness of the lights outside in the hallway blinded them slightly, so they let their eyes adjust before continuing towards the stairs. There was no sign of the doctor who'd spoken to them earlier.

Sherlock held the door open for John and the two husbands held hands while descending the stairs. There was no one in sight on the first floor either. Even the woman who was behind the desk when they first arrived wasn't there. The automatic doors pushed aside for them and they proceeded to the main road.

Sherlock flagged down a taxi and pulled open the door for John to slip inside. "221B Baker Street," he told the cabbie. The two of them sat in silence the entire ride home. When Sherlock hopped out of the cabbie at their apartment, he asked John, "Do you have your key? I forgot mine, because of…you know…"

John nodded and reached into his jeans pocket. He pulled out the tiny gold key and inserted it into the lock. Sherlock felt himself growing tired with every step he took up the stairs. The events of the day had happened so rapidly, and he could've slept with John outside room 207, but he'd refused to.

He had trouble standing while he pulled on his pajama shirt. His legs slipped into his pajama pants and he nearly fell over because he could barely keep his eyes open. John caught him before gravity pulled his entire body down towards the floor. He hooked his arms under Sherlock armpits and hoisted him up, bringing his long face within inches of his own.

"John…" Sherlock's voice came in a whisper. John stopped him a pressed a finger to Sherlock's lips. "It's okay," John assured him, "Hamish will be fine. He's strong. He can handle it. We'll be back to see him before you know it." His hand fell to his side and he lifted up higher on his feet to share a kiss with his husband. Sherlock didn't deny it, but pulled John in closer around his waist.

The same warm, happy feeling when John always kissed him filled his heart. His mood lightened up and he turned his head to check the time on the clock sitting on the bedside table. It wasn't very late. The blazing red numbers on its' surface read 10:34 P.M. He patted his hand on John's back and strode over to his side of the bed.

He let his body flop onto the covers and he slipped his feet under the sheets. The mattress was remarkably comfortable compared to the hard bench in the hospital. John lifted his arm up and flicked the switch off. Instant darkness surrounded them. Still thinking of Hamish, Sherlock's hand searched under the covers to find his husband's.

His fingers intertwined with John's and he felt John's hand squeeze his own. Sherlock's hair was flattened when his head hit the pillows and sank deeper into them. John's free hand softly stroked his husband's cheek. Sherlock felt one more heart-warming kiss before drifting off to sleep. His nightmare that night was terrible, and he woke up to find John sitting looking worried because Sherlock had squeezed his husband's hand so tightly that John lost feeling in his fingers.

Sherlock began to think later that the nightmare wasn't a nightmare at all. Flashes and images of Hamish kept crossing his mind. When he saw them again and again, they became clearer with each vision. A figure of a mysterious man could be seen lurking behind Hamish, an evil grin spread wide on his face.

Jim Moriarty.


	8. Chocolate Chip Cookies & A Novel

**A Worried Mind (Chapter 8)**

Just as they had promised, Sherlock and John were up early the next morning to visit Hamish. They enjoyed their cups of tea and coffee, and prepared a tasty treat to bring to their son for later. Before they exited out the door, Sherlock stopped John and went to look for something.

He went down the hall and to his surprise, didn't stop at his and John's bedroom door. He was going to grab his watch from his bedside table, but the urge to continue down the hall took over his body. He slowly proceeded towards the closed bedroom door that had been unoccupied for nearly 24 hours.

Sherlock's long, skinny fingers twisted the door handle to his son's room. When the door creaked open, his eyes noticed a scene that he'd completely ignored the night Hamish had his nightmare. There were several photo albums lying in a stack near the opposite wall, and a few select photos had been removed from under the plastic binding. His school bag was in a heap near one of the bed posts, pencils and notebooks spilling out of it.

Sherlock went directly over to Hamish's twin bed after observing his son's room. Hamish was indeed the cleanest and tidiest person in the house. Because he had Sherlock's brilliant mind but John's loyalty in him, Hamish controlled himself a lot easier than either of his dads.

The covers on his son's bed were still thrown about everywhere and there was still a slight dent in the pillow where Hamish's head shook about. On the bedside table, was Hamish's favorite novel. Sherlock and John had read Hamish this story first when he was only six years old. Hamish had insisted they read it to him, and he re-read the words on the pages at least twice a year from then on.

The Hobbit, by J.R.R. Tolkien, was lying pages open in the spot Hamish had stopped the night of his nightmare. The bookmark was a random little sketch Hamish had done of his parents when he was five years old. Hamish had taken special care of that book, especially after he accidently dropped it on the floor and the binding slightly ripped.

Sherlock closed the book and ran his hand over the front cover, examining the swirl of colors. All the blues, greens, blacks, and whites seemed to blend together very nicely. He turned his attention back to the little bed and went searching for what he was trying to find. He lifted up the covers and searched in between sheets, but he still couldn't find what he was looking for.

"Sherlock?" There was a knock on the door and John entered the room. Sherlock whipped around to stare at his husband. "What are you looking for?" Sherlock didn't reply but started to look for the object again. A thought suddenly crossed his mind and Sherlock looked into his son's closet. He looked up on the top shelf and finally found what he'd been looking for during the past five minutes.

Sherlock scooped up Hamish's baby blanket into his arms and felt the soft fabric on his hands. John raised his eyebrows at the sight of Sherlock holding the blanket. "It gives him comfort," Sherlock stated. "I know he doesn't sleep with it, but he likes it in the same room." John nodded and motioned for his husband to follow him. Usually it was the other way around.

Sherlock halted in the doorway and John turned back around. Sherlock raised his pointer finger to tell John he needed another moment. Spinning on his heel, he went back into the Hamish's room and snatched up his son's favorite book. Hamish would need some entertainment for his crazy brain so he wouldn't be bored in the hospital.

Satisfied, Sherlock and John headed back down the hall. They stopped at the top of the stairs to put their coats on. Sherlock flung his scarf around his neck and picked up Hamish's things from the coffee table.

They were walking through the front doors of the hospital within twenty minutes. The lady from the previous day was not at the check in desk, and Sherlock was quite relieved by it. He didn't fancy meeting someone in a bad mood this early in the morning. John crinkled the bag with Hamish's snack in it and tried to close the gap tightly so it would stay fresh.

A few people were passing by on the second floor as Sherlock and John practically skipped towards room 207. The silver numbers on the front of the door gleamed in Sherlock's eyes. He knocked three times, making sure it wasn't four because of a reason from his favorite television show, Doctor Who. There was a joyful, "Come in!" from inside, and Sherlock pushed the door inwards.

"Hamish!" Sherlock exclaimed happily, seeing his son sitting up and well rested in bed. The shades on the window had been pulled aside so the sunshine leaked in, filling the entire room. "How's my boy today?" Sherlock flopped onto Hamish's bed, planting a kiss on his son's nose.

Hamish giggled as John took the chair next to the bed, grabbing his son's hand. "We brought you some things you may like…" John revealed the snack bag from behind his back and placed it in his lap.

"Ooooh!" Hamish said, his eyes growing wide with excitement, "What is it?"

"Haha, why don't you look silly?" Hamish had no objections and dug into the bag.

"Careful!" John exclaimed, "It will be a thousand crumbs by the time you take it out of the bag!" John chuckled.

"Some left over homemade chocolate chip cookies!" Hamish's eyes lit up and he reached over the edge of the bed to give his dad a hug. John laughed and smiled, finding Sherlock's eyes behind Hamish's back.

Sherlock laughed too, and he leaned over to pat Hamish's on his other shoulder. Hamish let go of his dad and spun around to face his father. "We brought you these too," Sherlock said, uncovering Hamish's baby blanket and The Hobbit. Hamish took the blanket from his father and rubbed the soft fabric over his face, feeling the wonderful fuzziness of it and smiling up at his father.

When Hamish saw the book, he immediately asked, "Did you lose my place? Because I was at a good part…"

Sherlock laughed again and shook his head. "No, you're adorable bookmark is still in its' proper spot. And what are you talking about? The whole book is amazing!"

A thought crossed Hamish's mind. "Will you read it to me?" he asked. "Like you used to a couple years ago? You both do the voices so well! Dad's really good at being Bilbo, and I'm at the part where he meets Smaug, and you're always the best at Smaug father!" Sherlock couldn't resist Hamish's begging voice and tilted his head at John, waiting for an answer.

"Oh, alright," John gave in from the look on his husband's face. Hamish jumped up and down in his bed and passed the book over to his dad. Sherlock tried to get him to calm down. Before John began reading, Sherlock heard a ding from his coat pocket and pulled out his phone. He received a text from Lestrade.

_How's Hamish? I'm afraid the case will have to wait for a few more weeks. Molly's due any day now and I need to spend time with her. –Lestrade_

Sherlock smiled and felt happy for Lestrade and Molly. Their seven year old daughter, Isabella, would soon have a baby sister. "Who's that?" John asked curiously.

"Lestrade," he told his family. "Says Molly will have her baby any day now. The case will have to wait a few more weeks John." He hit reply and sent back a text to Lestrade.

_Hamish is fine. We plan on visiting him every day from now on. He'll only need to be in the hospital for about a week and a half. If you need any help with the baby, John and I don't mind. Especially me. Tell Molly I told her good luck. –SH_

"Aw, that's great!" Hamish said as Sherlock typed his reply. "I'll get to have another friend soon! And maybe I'll be able to hold her! Tell Isabella I said hi!" he added towards his father.

"They come up with a name yet?" John asked, holding the book open in front of him.

"I think Lestrade told me the other day that they were deciding between Eleanor, Lila, and Marietta." He unlocked his phone and sent another text to Lestrade.

_Hamish says hi to Isabella. Maybe she should come see him later this week; he'd like that. We're all happy for you! –SH_

"Right John, take it away!" he said, putting his phone back into his coat pocket.

They spent most of the rest of the morning passing the book back and forth reading to Hamish. Sherlock and John sat next to each other in the chairs by the window, and Hamish munched happily on his chocolate chip cookies. The doctor came in late in the afternoon while they took a break from reading and checked to see if Hamish was okay.

Sherlock and John said goodbye to their son around dinner time so they could return to 221B and spend some time together. Again, they promised Hamish they would be back the next morning, a little later however because they had to take care of some bills.

Sherlock and John spent the next couple days getting up in the morning and getting dressed quickly so they could visit Hamish. They'd spend time together reading The Hobbit and discussing previous cases Sherlock and John had done together.

On the morning of Hamish's surgery, Sherlock and John sat down together at breakfast and discussed the situation.

"Shouldn't at least one of us go? We don't have to be in the room, but at least he'll know we'll be outside the door…" Sherlock pleaded.

"That's weird. The other day you were saying that Hamish could deal with it himself," John reminded his husband.

"Well, you know how my mind is. My mind changes frequently. Please can we go?"

John gave in. "Alright. When is this supposed to happen?"

"Around three in the afternoon."

"How do you know that?"

"I spoke to the doctor yesterday John. Of course I know." Sherlock took a sip of coffee from his mug. He didn't touch the pancakes on his plate in front of him though. All morning, he'd been thinking about Hamish and how he'd react to the surgery. John secretly had a worried feeling that Hamish might not do too well in the surgery either.

They spent the rest of the morning and part of the afternoon trying to clean up the living room. John shrieked when it was 2:30 P.M. and told Sherlock they had to hurry or they'd be late. They dashed out the door without another further hesitation.

The doctors prevented them from going in when they reached room 207. John made sure a message was passed on to Hamish that they would be waiting outside the door till the surgery was over. The doctors had to force Sherlock out of the room as he tried to push them aside and get to reach Hamish.

John even tried to pull him back. John pulled him around his chest and forced him back onto the bench to sit with him. The doctors closed the door behind them and Sherlock went into a state of misery. His body sank on the bench and John put his arm around Sherlock's shoulder.

"It's going to be okay…Hamish will do great, I promise," John assured his husband, rocking back and forth in his seat. "He's brave. And come on, we all know where his brave trait came from…" Sherlock looked up and had to smile at John quoting him.

All they heard from behind the door were a few muffled voices. There was an occasional clink of an object or tool from inside, but nothing else.

A few minutes later however, the two husbands heard a young boy let out a scream from behind the door of room 207. Sherlock jumped up from his seat out of John's grip and started pounding on the door, yelling, "Let us in! Please let us in!"

Someone inside the door was trying to make Hamish fall asleep so the operation could go by faster. For a brief moment, Sherlock heard his son crying from the far left corner, and then there was silence. Sherlock tried pounding again on the door but no one would let him in. It was sealed and bolted shut, and he yet again found himself being pulled backwards by his husband.

He fell back once more onto the bench, tears starting to stream from his eyes. John tried to look him in the face and get him to calm down. They sat together for a long time, hearing nothing but silence coming from behind the door.

Ten minutes passed, then twenty. John began to wonder how long this was supposed to take. His thinking was interrupted by a ding from Sherlock's phone. Sherlock raised his head, slightly bewildered, and reached into his coat pocket to retrieve it. He read the luminous words on the screen to John.

_It's time. We're coming into the hospital just now. Molly's about to deliver our new baby. Can one of you come and keep Isabella company? We don't want her to be in the room at the time. Room 437 on the fourth floor. I'll be inside with Molly. You can come in when it's over. Thanks. –Lestrade_

"But…Hamish?" John said, looking at Sherlock and into his bright eyes.

"You stay here with Hamish. I told you, he loves you more. I'll go. Someone needs to keep Isabella company. I promise I'll be back soon…" he added, seeing the worried look on his husband's face. He reached in and gave John a kiss on the lips. "I promise…"

Without another word, Sherlock turned and headed towards the staircase not far from Hamish's room. He really couldn't believe he was going upstairs. But then again, Isabella needed someone to watch over her. The door behind him practically slammed shut and sent a booming echo up the winding stairs.

Sherlock headed up towards the fourth floor, his mind racing at all the events occurring on the same day, and his footsteps thundering loudly as he went.


	9. Lila Elanor Lestrade

**A Worried Mind (Chapter 9)**

Sherlock counted the steps as he raced up the noisy staircase. He got to twenty-nine and then stopped when he nearly ran headfirst into the door of floor four. He lifted his head and peeked through the rectangular glass window on the door, noticing a girl of about Hamish's size sitting on one of the benches.

He flung the door open and rushed over to get to her as soon as possible. She sat with her elbows on her knees and her hands in fists, which rested against her face. Her hair was the same shade of red as Molly's, but she had the same piercing eyes as Lestrade. Stormy grey, yet bright at the same time. At seven years old, she still had a little bit of baby fat on her cheeks, which were very pink almost all the time.

Isabella had been Hamish's best friend since they first met. Sherlock and John immediately introduced Hamish to her when they adopted him, telling him that she would be his first friend. Since Lestrade had become closer to Sherlock and John over the years, they spent more free time with each other, and therefore Lestrade had basically become an uncle to Hamish.

Sherlock approached her cautiously, since he'd had experience with Hamish and thought she'd be a little shaken up. Sherlock didn't understand why Lestrade hadn't just stayed out in the hall with her until he came. Isabella saw him out of the corner of her eye and jumped up suddenly to wrap her arms around him. Sherlock was a little shocked but returned the hug after thinking about how Isabella was probably feeling.

From behind the door of room 437, Sherlock could hear a little less than a dozen voices. He could hear Lestrade, trying to speak words of comfort over the screams coming from his wife's mouth. Sherlock himself couldn't stand the noise, even when it was muffled, and he felt Isabella bury her head in his stomach.

"Isabella," he said, kneeing down to come face to face with her and trying to sound calm. "I want you to go downstairs. Hamish is down there and needs comfort for when his surgery is done. I'm sure it's over. John's down there; you'll see him when you get to the second floor…"

"But what about my mom?" she asked, nodding towards the door.

"I'll come and get you when you can see your new sister, I promise. It's just not a great time for you to be here right now…" He ran a hand up and down her back and felt as though she was his daughter. Then he stood up abruptly and made her run down the hall. He waved her away with his hands and she shuffled her feet as she ran.

Sherlock didn't bother sending a text to John telling him Isabella was making her way downstairs. He knew she would make it okay on her own. He didn't bother sitting down on the hard bench, since he'd had that experience already. He paced up and down the hall for minutes on end as far away from the door as he possibly could, avoiding the noise from room 437. He pondered thoughts in his brain as his long fingers rested on the edge of his mouth.

John sat downstairs on the second floor, still wondering how Hamish was coping with the surgery. He tapped his feet on the floor and patted his fingers on his knees. He noticed a figure opening the door at the far end of the hall and turned his head to get a better look.

Isabella came running over towards where he was sitting. John couldn't believe or wonder why she'd come downstairs. He raised himself from his seat and stood, dumbstruck, while she continued coming towards him.

"Isabella…?" he asked, confused as his arms gave her a hug for him. He pulled her in close and rested his head on top of hers. "You okay?" he asked her delicately. She nodded from inside his open jacket. John let go of her and looked her in the eyes. "You're frightened, aren't you?"

"Just a bit," she agreed. John treated her as if she were his own and so did Sherlock. He twisted his fingers around her braids and ran one hand over her smooth cheek.

John thought for a moment and became slightly confused. "Why did you come down here?" he asked.

She took a moment to think about the best way to say what was true. "Your husband sent me. He told me that Hamish's surgery would be over soon and that I could see him. Is he okay?"

"I'm sure he's fine," John comforted her, "he's a brave boy." He smiled at her and pulled Isabella into another hug. "Come on," he told her, sitting down and patting his hand on his lap. "You can sit with me. We'll wait until you can go back upstairs."

Back upstairs, Sherlock kept pacing back and forth, trying to take his mind off things. He tried thinking of the pictures he and Hamish went through multiple nights ago. He tried singing under his breath to entertain himself. He tried to complete the level of Angry Birds that he couldn't on the night he waited four hours to see his son. It still didn't comfort his mind when he failed to complete the level over a dozen times.

He gave up on the game and shoved the phone back into his pocket. His feet paced and skimmed the floor once more and he grew more intense. When he passed room 437, there was not a sound except someone murmuring soft words and a few scuffling noises.

Sherlock's legs felt weak and one of his knees buckled under him as it began to fall asleep. He sat down on the bench directly outside Molly's room and tried to empty his racing mind. His head rested in his hands and he suddenly saw another flash of the image of Hamish. The now visible man behind him was not something Sherlock wanted to see.

He knew that only two things were possible; that Moriarty had indeed killed himself on the roof of St. Bart's eleven years ago and has been hiding ever since, or it was just his imagination taking over truth and playing with his thoughts. But it was mentally impossible for Moriarty to have survived the day Sherlock had to "kill himself."

His mind was disturbed however when the door opened and Lestrade came bolting out. A sweet smile was spread wide on his face, but when he saw Sherlock sitting alone on the bench wrapped in thoughts, the expression on his face changed from pure happiness to utter confusion. He looked up and down the hall once and Sherlock raised his head.

"Where's Isabella?" Lestrade asked. Sherlock stood up so his face was slightly higher than the detective inspectors.

"I sent her downstairs to sit with John," Sherlock told him. "I thought it was a better idea than sitting up here with me. Don't worry," he interrupted Lestrade before his mouth could form words, "I'll send a text down to John telling both of them to come up."

"But…" Lestrade stuttered and his voice was cautious. "What about your son? How did Hamish cope with the surgery?"

Sherlock took a deep breath and stared at the floor, mocking Hamish and bouncing up and down on his feet. "We don't know. The surgery isn't over yet. Even if it was, John would have told me and the doctors were pretty keen on keeping us out before it started. I doubt they'd let us see him directly after." Lestrade's gaze went towards the ground and he patted Sherlock on the shoulder, giving him a comforting smile.

Sherlock dug in his coat pocket and pulled out his phone, sending a text to John.

_You and Isabella can come upstairs now. Don't worry about Hamish, John. We'll be able to see him later. –SH_

Sherlock looked back up into Lestrade's face and returned the smile. "Would you like to come see her?" Lestrade asked, pointing his arm to the door. Sherlock could hear tiny little squeals coming from behind the door, clearly from Molly's new born baby. Sherlock smiled and nodded. "Go on. Go in," Lestrade motioned for him to enter the room. "I'll wait out here for Isabella and John." The door was open a tiny crack, and Sherlock knocked quietly before entering the room.

Molly's hospital room was the same as Hamish's, except that it was opposite. The bed was in the far right corner, and the shades on the window had been opened to reveal the brilliant sunshine. Molly was lying in the bed, her face slightly pink, wearing a hospital gown and sitting upright. Sherlock could see a tiny lump in her arms, and as he approached the bed, the little baby stirred and poked her head out from behind the covers.

Sherlock's mouth opened in a pleasant smile as he stared at Molly's beautiful new baby. The tiny creature had a very pink face and the smallest hands Sherlock had ever seen. He pulled up a chair next to the bed and caught Molly's eye.

"Congratulations you," he said, placing a light kiss on her cheek. Molly smiled sweetly and muttered her thanks to him. He resumed his seat and lightly rested his hand on Molly's shoulder. "Can you tilt her so I can see better?" he asked.

"Of course, Sherlock." Molly adjusted herself in her seat and turned the baby over in her arms. Sherlock saw her tiny hands stick out from the covers and could see how truly pink the little baby's face was. He held one of her hands in his, laughing and noting the comparison in size. There were many exceptions, seeing as he was a full grown man and he held a tiny baby girl's hand.

At that moment the door of the room swung open again, and Isabella came rushing into the room, followed closely by John and Lestrade. When John saw Sherlock holding the little baby's hand, he couldn't help but smile and walk over to where he was sitting. Isabella saw her mom and flopped onto the end of the bed so she could sit with her. Lestrade gave Molly a kiss and sat next to her on the bed, his hand on her shoulder.

"She has a lot of hair on her head already," John pointed out, as he saw a patch of messy brown hair, or dark red John couldn't really tell, sprouting from the baby's head. The baby must have heard John's voice, because a second later, she opened her tiny eyes slowly and stared up at her mother for the first time. Molly looked deep into her new daughter's sparkling blue eyes and couldn't help but smile and laugh.

Isabella leaned in to get a closer look at her new sister. Molly kept whispering and saying hi to her new daughter, and Sherlock's hand still played with her baby's tiny fingers. He stopped suddenly and looked up at both Molly and Lestrade.

"What's her name?" he asked. Molly glanced up at her husband and indicated for him to speak her name.

"Lila Eleanor," Lestrade said proudly, and Sherlock made the connection that they'd combined two of the three names they were debating to give her. Sherlock felt John reached over his shoulder to rub his slightly rough hand over Lila's chubby cheeks. Lila's short arms reached out in all different directions as she stared, confused, up at all the people surrounding her.

"Hello there Lila," Sherlock said. He grabbed both her hands and played a little game with her. He made her move her hands all around and he made funny faces at her. Molly saw Lila's foot stick out from under the covers and she tickled her toes.

The small lips formed a smile that warmed all their hearts. An adorable toothless smile that made them all laugh and bring all the attention in the room to her.

"Can I hold her mommy?" Isabella looked anxious and desperately wanted to hold her baby sister. Molly carefully removed herself from the pillows and handed Lila over to Isabella. The baby squirmed a little from being taken away from her mother, but when she saw Isabella she settled down again. The wool baby blanket Lestrade had given to Molly for Lila was wrapped around Lila's skinny torso and chest. Her stubby fingers were in her mouth as the typical baby drooled all over the blanket.

They sat talking to together about how they thought Hamish's surgery went as Isabella was distracted with the baby. She overheard them talking though and asked when she could see Hamish. Sherlock and John told her that she'd probably have to wait till the end of the week until Isabella could see Hamish, but they were excited to say that they'd be able to see their son the next morning.

A doctor came in after about an hour to check on how Molly was doing and John of course had to remind the doctor that he himself had been an army doctor. The doctor set down a bottle full of milk on the table and brought a crib in for Lila to sleep in later. Molly handed Lila over to Lestrade so she could teach him again how to feed her. From all those long years ago when Isabella was born, he'd forgotten slightly how to take care of an infant. He'd been distracted from all his work since then, but planned to be a loving father now that they had a new member of the family.

Lila gulped happily on her first meal and John reminded Molly of a few things so she'd feel later because of the birth. Sherlock tried to briefly discuss work with Lestrade and the case they'd been working on. Lestrade wasn't too thrilled about the subject but knew he had to talk about it with the consulting detective.

Lestrade looked down and noticed Lila had fallen asleep in his arms. He handed the infant back to Molly and she patted Lila lightly on the back. Molly mentioned that she wanted to rest, so Sherlock and John rose from their seats and planned to say goodbye. Sherlock wanted one thing before they left. He asked one more favor from Molly. She agreed to Sherlock's request and gently passed Lila over to him.

John and Lestrade both pulled out their phones. Sherlock held the tiny baby in his arms and smiled. John captured the picture on his phone and Lestrade got one with Molly to the right of Sherlock.

"Alright you three, all of you get in! I want a photo with the three of you." John and Lestrade couldn't resist and went to knee on either side of the chair Sherlock sat in. They all smiled happily at the thought of Lila and Molly took another picture. Isabella hopped into the next one and Molly asked if Sherlock could take one of the new family.

Sherlock immediately sent the photo of the Lestrade family to Greg's phone and he sent Sherlock and John the photos of them. John got excited and couldn't wait to show Hamish. He knew Hamish would be excited when he found out that he'd be able to hold Lila. Hamish always got excited when his best friend had exciting news.

Sherlock and John bid them all farewell and Sherlock gave a small kiss on the top of the new baby's head. Sherlock stopped in the middle of the hall and went through the pictures on his phone. His mouth curled into a smile as he showed John the picture of him holding Lila with John and Lestrade kneeling next to the chair.

"She's a beautiful baby," John said, and Sherlock nodded enthusiastically in agreement.

"Lila's first day in the world," Sherlock said, examining the picture. "Hamish will be a little too excited." John couldn't help but giggle. Before they left the hospital to return to 221B, John left a note to Hamish and slid it under the door.

_Went to see Molly's new baby today. She's wonderful and we know you'll be super excited when you'll get to met her. Isabella will most likely come visit you towards the end of the week. We promise to come see you first thing tomorrow morning. Sherlock and I both hope you're doing well._

_We love you Hamish. –John & Sherlock_

John knocked on the door before sliding the note through the crack under it. He rose from his knees and messed up his husband's hair. His hand intertwined with Sherlock's and they walked hand in hand towards the stairs.

Sherlock could already picture his enlightened son holding Lila, just wanting to grow up caring for her and have Lila become his new friend; one of the few he actually had in the world.


	10. The Next Chapter's Adventure

**A Worried Mind (Chapter 10)**

Sherlock sat in his favorite black chair, pondering various thoughts and stroking the strings on his violin. His long fingers moved up and down the strings, playing a beautiful melody. John was in the kitchen trying to prepare some leftovers for dinner they'd had the previous night. He opened the fridge door and saw something that was way too common for their family.

"We need milk," John said, turning to face his husband, who looked up briefly from his violin playing. Sherlock sighed. The number of gallons of milk they went through in a week was unbelievable. Hamish's favorite thing to drink was milk; sometimes he drank chocolate milk, so there was always a container of chocolate syrup ready in the cupboard.

"Did Hamish drink it all again?" Sherlock asked, looking slightly disappointed. "Honestly. I swear he goes through a gallon so bloody fast on his own; not to mention when we drink some too…" John couldn't blame Hamish for drinking so much. After all, John was pleased Hamish drank so much milk because it made him strong and healthy. Hamish had cereal every morning for breakfast after saying a very cheerful "good morning!" to Sherlock and John.

John already missed Hamish jumping on him to get him to wake up. Maybe he would do it instead when they went to visit him the next morning.

Sherlock flipped his violin bow up with his feet from the floor, which he was very good at, and flipped through the stack of music lying on the table nearby. He came across many pieces by Beethoven, Mozart, and various others. When he saw a song written by Johan Sebastian Bach, he threw it aside violently as the thought of Moriarty crossed his mind. John jumped startled in the kitchen as he heard a loud crash of an object hit the floor.

"What the hell are you doing?!" John stood with a fork in his hand, looking displeased at Sherlock. Sherlock turned away from the pile of music and muttered a single word.

"Moriarty."

"What?"

"Moriarty," Sherlock said, this time a little louder.

John shifted his weight on his feet and placed the fork down on the kitchen counter. His eyes flashed a tiny bit at the mention of the name, and he sighed as he started to walk over to Sherlock. John's footsteps were split in two parts, and Sherlock could undoubtedly hear both sole of his foot and the heel hit the floor separately. The silence was spreading throughout the room way too quickly.

The violin rested against Sherlock's leg as he let it hang in his loose grasp, the pegs sinking deeper into his longer fingers. John stood, leaning against his favorite plaid armchair with one foot crossed over the other.

John let out another deeper sigh and stared directly at Sherlock. Sherlock wasn't paying attention. His gaze was on the floor and his violin bow traced the outline of his bare feet. All Sherlock could hear was the slight tapping of John's fingers on the chair.

John thought it best to break the silence first. "Why is this bothering you now?" he asked, confusion and wonder both in his tone. "You haven't mentioned Moriarty in years. He's off your mind. Nothing can bring him back. He's long gone…" John wasn't so sure. Moriarty had played so many tricks on him. The feeling of having a bomb strapped to his chest more than eleven years ago was mortifying, and if Moriarty's sniper had pulled the trigger, he would've been blasted on the spot, probably taking Sherlock's life too.

In which would have resulted in Moriarty possibly escaping and Sherlock and John not being able to have Hamish.

The thoughts of bombs from the pool and the battlefield flew out of John's mind quickly as he shook his head. Sherlock still hadn't spoken. He stood frozen like a statue, not giving a slight hint of expression on his face or showing disturbance by Moriarty's name.

John turned his face away from Sherlock's figure and stared back at his own reflection in the mirror. He observed the dark circles under his eyes, indicating he was tired. His eyes scanned the surface of the mirror, returning back to his own reflection as he stared into his own eyes. He didn't realize till then that his eyes were a very piercing shade of blue. The reflection took on the image of hundreds of tiny little stars circling in his eye, making the blue sparkle violently.

He blinked several times, slightly frightened by the ridiculous image, and turned to face Sherlock again. John's heart jumped in his chest as he found Sherlock looking directly at him.

"I don't want to talk about it right now," Sherlock stated, and simply said nothing else. He turned his back to his husband and started to play a tune John had never heard before, the violin bow gently moving gracefully over the vibrating strings. John made a hand motion meaning "why" but didn't ask and went back into the kitchen to finish preparing dinner.

The scent of strong black coffee filled Sherlock's nostrils as he stopped playing his violin to record some notes on a piece of blank sheet music. His head rose to find John walking towards him, and mug with steaming liquid grasped firmly in his hands. John always held coffee mugs in a strange way. His fingers never touched the handle but wrapped through it, with his thumb closest to him.

Sherlock stated without hesitation, "You never make coffee…" John grinned and set the mug down on top of a pile of various papers that were of no use.

"Black, two sugars," John said, patting Sherlock on the shoulder. Sherlock watched him return to the kitchen, his mouth slightly open. He caught himself staring and closed his mouth awkwardly, turning away. He spotted the vibrantly yellow smiley face he'd painted on the wall and smiled right back at it.

The coffee on his tongue burned just a bit, but he tasted the sweetness from the sugar and swallowed heavily. He slammed the mug suddenly down on the table, causing the coffee to spill out over the edges.

"The shoes!" he suddenly shouted, making John startle with fright.

"What?"

"The shoes John! Didn't you see them? Mrs. Rosenburgh's the suspect. You saw that print in the dirt near the walkway into the house. The footprint of a sneaker, not just any sneaker, Nike ones at that. But remember when we spoke to her several days later? She wasn't wearing the sneakers then. She'd exchanged them for those ugly high heels. You saw the way she walked in them. She kept stumbling and they were too small, proof blister on the back of her left heel. She kept walking on the outside of her feet, thus the same with the sneaker footprint. Phone Lestrade. Case solved."

The words came from Sherlock's mouth with such rapidness John didn't have time to observe it all. He'd heard something about "shoes", particularly sneakers and high heels, but since he was barely paying attention his brain didn't process it all.

Sherlock hand flew into his dressing gown's pocket and pulled out his phone. He sent Lestrade the details, probably expecting a response that involved him not being able to complete the case until Molly was out of the hospital. He sent the text and collapsed into his favorite chair. He didn't bother cleaning up his spilled coffee till after he and John had sat down to eat dinner.

Sherlock denied a game of Cluedo John had offered to cheer him up with after they'd eaten. Sherlock told him he had business to attend to and went to shut himself in their room for the next few hours. John frowned and felt upset when Sherlock shut the door to their room, leaving John standing alone in the hallway.

John went back into the living room and spotted Sherlock's violin lying in his chair. It looked perfectly placed, with the bow crossing over it and resting on one of the chairs' arms. He picked it up and went to sit down with it in his plaid chair. He tried to imitate his husband the way he played the violin, strumming the strings and making beautiful music. Sherlock didn't mind John or Hamish using his violin; in fact, he'd tried to teach Hamish once how to play it because he was mildly interested.

His fingers ran over the strings lightly because he didn't want to be disturbed by any loud noises at that moment. His experience in Afghanistan many years ago had caused him to dislike loud noises greatly, and so he preferred the quiet more than the loud. He sat humming to himself, playing no particular tune in general. He didn't know the names of the notes, so he couldn't say them out loud like the way Sherlock did sometimes when he messed up a tune and tried to correct himself.

Sherlock didn't emerge from their bedroom for at least two hours. John didn't hear him enter the kitchen, but knew he'd come out when he heard the running water in the sink. Next moment, Sherlock appeared over his shoulder and had his arms wrapped loosely around John's neck.

"Come on," Sherlock whispered into his husband's ear. "We both need to sleep. Hamish is anxious to see us tomorrow I imagine."

John groaned as the alarm went off and wondered why on earth Sherlock had set it the previous night. He rolled over on his side and lifted his head to check the time on the alarm clock across the room. 7:03 A.M. He rolled out of bed and fidgeted with the buttons until he got the alarm to shut up. Sherlock did not stir in bed, and John figured he was in a state off deep sleep.

He climbed back into bed, thinking about how he would see Hamish in a few hours. He let himself sink deeper into the mattress as he continued to stare at the boring bedroom ceiling.  _Sherlock would normally be up at this hour,_ John said to himself. He shifted his position and turned his head to stare at his husband's back.

Several minutes passed by before John realized that Sherlock was having a nightmare of some sort. He seemed to be having a fit and shook all over.

"Sherlock," John whispered, propping himself up onto his elbow. It didn't take much for John to wake his trembling husband. He shook him on the shoulder a couple times, and not long after Sherlock's eyes flew open in shock.

"You okay?" John asked carefully. Sherlock twisted his head to get a glimpse of John over his shoulder before rolling over onto his back. Sherlock didn't speak for a while. John watched his chest rise up and down lightly and hear each breath he took.

"Is it Moriarty again?" John asked, his curiosity getting the better of him. It took Sherlock a couple minutes to give in, but after what felt like hours, his head gave a small nod.

"Do you…want to talk about it now?"

This time the detective shook his head.

"Well then," John said, coming to a conclusion. "Let's make some breakfast. Then we can go see Hamish." At the mention of Hamish's name, Sherlock nodded and his eyes got a slight hint of joy in them. He pulled on his dressing gown and proceeded towards the kitchen.

John had trouble getting Sherlock to properly make the pancakes, which he barely touched while they sat down to eat. John shoved a rather large piece of chocolate chip pancake into his mouth, chewed, and swallowed.

"What is up?" he asked, still determined to find out what was bothering his husband. "Don't tell me nothing's wrong. I know that look."

Sherlock spread a bit of butter over his flaky pancakes and sighed. "Moriarty," was all he mumbled.

"I know," John said, slightly irritated and he rolled his eyes so Sherlock couldn't see. "But…what about Moriarty?"

"Well…I don't really know. He keeps popping up in images engraved in my head. I keep seeing these images of Hamish in my mind, and Moriarty is behind him. They keep getting clearer and clearer whenever they pop up." He froze, holding his fork in mid air with a piece of pancake on the end.

John couldn't decide whether to believe his husband or not. He organized the words in his head so they sounded right, but when he spoke them it wasn't the same as he'd planned in his mind. "But, that's physically impossible. Moriarty is dead. You saw him do it right in front of your eyes."

"I thought so…" Sherlock began, "but I'm not so sure now…" John shook his head at the ridiculous idea and continued to chew on his breakfast. Sherlock took about four bites, stopped, then put his fork and knife down on his plate and read the morning's paper.

It took John some effort to get Sherlock out of the dining room table chair so he could get dressed. It wasn't until he mentioned "Hamish" again that Sherlock suddenly sprung to his feet and bolted towards their bedroom door. He'd done the quickest change John had ever seen him, changing into his usual suit, brushing his teeth, and flattening his hair in seven minutes flat.

The sun was hidden behind a few clouds when Sherlock pulled the front door of 221B closed behind him. The streets seemed to be more crowded than usual, but they didn't have trouble flagging down a cab. The slightly nippy spring air chilled Sherlock's cheekbones.

The cab ride there was spent exchanging words about how they each thought Hamish would make them read again to pass the time.

Sherlock's mouth curved into a smile as they pulled up next to the curb near the entrance to the hospital. His eyes scanned the windows lining the second floor and he spotted one with a young boy eagerly looking out the window. Sherlock didn't wave, as he knew Hamish wouldn't be able to see him from that distance.

One of the doctors on the second floor when they arrived was very reluctant in letting them in, but the doctor who had shoved Sherlock out of the room the previous day came up and stated they could see their son. John felt very pleased and led the way towards room 207. John turned the door handle and pushed the door inwards.

Hamish sat upright in bed, the cut on his face stitched up and looking much less pink than before. A smile crossed his face when both his parents entered the room. The Hobbit was already lying open in his lap on the page which they'd stopped, and Sherlock and John couldn't help but grin towards each other as they were eager to continue the adventure.


	11. The Game

**A Worried Mind (Chapter 11)**

Hamish's fingers glided over the words on the pages on the book resting in his lap. He felt the bed sink a little as his dad fell onto the bed next to him. Hamish giggled as John fell back against the pillow, kicking off his shoes so he could rest his feet on the bed. Sherlock grabbed the nearest chair and sat in it as close to the bed as he possibly could.

"So, how did it go?" John asked, hoping for a good response.

"Well…" Hamish started, pausing and Sherlock's heart sank a little bit. "It hurt. A lot, but I couldn't remember most of what happened. My vision faded after just a few minutes. I can't recall what happened after that…I just woke up and a doctor told me it was all over."

Sherlock's hand passed over the smooth pages of Hamish's book to lock contact with his son's hand. Hamish's hand was the perfect shape to fit snugly in the palm of his father's. Sherlock's fingers wrapped around Hamish's tiny knuckles, and he squeezed his son's hand to let him know everything was going to be alright.

Hamish felt something slide across his back and found his dad's arm over his left shoulder. He looked into his dad's eyes, and John winked back at him. John squeezed Hamish's shoulder slightly and brought him in close to give him a kiss. He ruffled Hamish's messy brown hair, which made Sherlock laugh at his husband's ridiculous behavior.

"I got your note last night," Hamish told them, folding back the pages of his book and pulling out the small note with John's handwriting on it.

"Here," Sherlock said, reaching into his coat pocket and pulling out his phone. He scrolled through the endless number of photographs he'd taken on it until he reached the bottom of the page. "See Hamish?" He held up the phone so Hamish could see the picture on it. "John held Molly's new little baby."

"So did you," John pointed out, giving his husband a smile. "You held her first. She practically loved you." Hamish's small hand slid out from his father's grip to extend towards Sherlock's phone. He took it from his father and smiled, staring at the photo on the screen.

"She's so little!" Hamish mused, spotting the difference between his father's hands and the entirety of Lila. He flicked his finger on the screen, scrolling through the dozen or so photos from the previous day. "I like this one!" Hamish exclaimed, pointing at the picture of Sherlock holding Lila with Lestrade and John on either side.

"That's one to keep in the photo album," Sherlock said, showing Hamish the new Lestrade family photo. Greg stood bending over his wife's back, his left hand squeezing Isabella's shoulder, Lila wrapped in a blanket in her mother's arms.

"They're such a sweet family," John smiled.

"Can I see her?" Hamish asked anxiously, tugging on his dad's jacket.

John laughed. "Not yet, no." Hamish pouted, crossing his arms and sinking farther back into the pillow. "Molly has to stay in the hospital for a few days. Maybe when she's released she can bring Lila. Then Isabella will be able to see you too." John pinched Hamish's cheek, forcing his son to smile.

"Can we finish it?" The book was open to the last chapter of The Hobbit, and Sherlock couldn't help but think what could keep Hamish occupied after they finished, so his little brain wouldn't become "bored."

The days continued on. Sherlock and John frequently visited Molly in her room on the fourth floor, and each time they would open the door, they'd spot Lestrade talking to his wife and squeezing her hand. A few times they entered the room to find Lila sleeping peacefully in her crib, or Molly teaching her husband how to feed the tiny infant.

Hamish had certainly taken the news excitedly, and he asked everyday if Molly was out of the hospital. His blue eyes lit up with surprise when the red haired mother came into his room late at the end of the week, and Sherlock and John couldn't help but grin to each other, since they knew Molly was coming to visit. Molly bounced her newborn lightly on her hip, and Lila did nothing but stare around, oblivious to what was going on in the world around her.

Hamish was given Lila in his arms. He took her gently, and she sat held upright in the young boy's lap. Sherlock took the opportunity to snap a bunch of photos of his son holding Molly's child, knowing that they would go into the scrapbook he and his husband kept under their bed at home. Isabella sat next to Hamish on his bed, and they had a long conversation about school.

Isabella had made Hamish a get well card, and retrieved it from behind her back just after Molly recollected Lila to feed her. She sucked happily on the end of her bottle, drinking her late lunch composed of milk till the last drop. A ring of "aww's" went around the room as Hamish reached in to give his best friend a hug.

The following Monday morning Isabella had to return to school, and apparently the news that she had a new sister spread like wildfire. She came by Hamish's room in the afternoon to drop off his school books. He thanked her and she gave him a small kiss on his cheek.

Tuesday morning, bright and early, Sherlock was awoken by the strong smell of coffee. His husband made him get out of bed so they could see how their son was doing. Hamish was only a few days from being released from the hospital now. It took some effort for John to get Sherlock out of bed. He'd stayed up rather late the previous night and had only gotten five hours of sleep.

Hamish was his usual self; cheerful and loving. Sherlock had brought the first book of the Harry Potter series so they'd be entertained during the day. Sherlock felt strangely odd reading Harry's lines, with John accompanying him as Ron. They tried singing songs around lunchtime, but Sherlock's voice cracked loudly so they stopped.

"My bed's really squeaky," Hamish suddenly blurted out. He rocked back and forth on his bottom, and the bed swayed almost dangerously on its posts.

"Why didn't you tell the doctor silly?" Sherlock asked, rubbing the circles under his eyes.

"I don't like them…" Sherlock laughed. Typical trait passed on to Hamish from his father. "Some of them are sketchy." He made a face like he was in disgust. John laughed and offered to fix the bed. Hamish nodded without hesitation.

"It's probably just a loose screw," John explained, sinking onto his hands and knees. He twisted his body over onto his back so he could get a complete and proper look of the underside of the bed. "Yep. There it is." The screw had come loose and was almost dangling out of the hole it was screwed into. John pushed back up onto his hands and knees to get some support from his thighs.

"Hamish, you might want to back away from there," Sherlock warned, holding out his arm. Hamish got swiftly from the bed and took hold of his father's hand. There was a clink of metal hitting the tile floor as the screw fell completely from the hole.

"Ah!"

John's muffled scream was cut off as the far left post of the bed gave way and the bed collapsed its full weight on John.

"John!" Sherlock ran close to where all the doctor tools and equipment and crouched to get a look under the bed. John's left hand was barely visible, sticking out of the darkness lurking under the bed. Sherlock hurriedly tried to lift the bed off his unconscious husband, but it was too much weight for him to lift fully on his own.

"Hamish, help me!" Sherlock gasped through deep breaths. Hamish shuffled over to where his father stood, and tried to help push the cot off his dad. They both pushed with all their might, and eventually the bed gave up on them and the father and son were able to throw the bed from all their bodies.

"John!"

There was a large scrape on the left side of his graceful face, and his favorite black jacket had a tear in the sleeve. John lay motionless on the floor, knocked out by the blow from the overpowering weight.

"Hamish…" Sherlock was on the verge of screaming. "Go get a doctor, quickly!" Hamish turned away and bolted out of the room, screaming at the top of his lungs for attention. Sherlock sat on the floor, gripping his husband's wrist in his hand, muttering under his breath.

"John…"

He was interrupted by a group of medical workers rushing in. They pushed him aside and settled John softly on a stretcher, removing him from the room.

Then it hit him.  _How could one bolt cause the entire bed to collapse?_ Sherlock swirled around in his seat, observing the various debris left behind by the bed. Lying under one of the bed posts was a small piece of paper. Sherlock didn't know if someone dropped by accident or if it was put there intentionally. Nonetheless, he picked it up and unfolded the tiny note.

Some feeling of dread spread through his veins. This was no accident. For the message that was written on the lined paper sent Sherlock in a rage, and he gripped his fists tightly in fury.

His family was not going to be destroyed, or taken, one by one, from him. The red ink was smudged in the top left corner, no doubt written by a left handed man. He shoved the note into his coat pocket, wanting to strangle the man who had dared to write those words on the paper. The gears in his brain turned furiously, and they faded in and out of his vision as he ran down the hall, hoping his husband was alright.

His brain was playing tricks with him. Not those initials. Surely. It was…a game.

The note.

_Let's play a little game, shall we? -JM_

***Here ends part one of A Worried Mind. There is a part two, titled Playful Minds, which is the part of the tale with more suspense. There will be a crime involved, in which Sherlock has to figure out who is behind trying to destroy his family. Don't worry, I promise John and Hamish will both be okay.**

***I apologize for the sudden and terrible ending. I could have spent more time on it.**


End file.
